Sing, Nightingale
by vargrimar
Summary: Wheatley wants to help Chell learn how to speak. His method? Melodic intonation and music therapy. Human!Wheatley/Chell, humming, learning, and eventual singing for a portalkink meme fill. Shameless fluff and tension with a bit of plot in the background.
1. The Offer

Wheatley finally comes to the decision that his human body isn't all that bad.

It's nothing like being in the small, centralized metal body of a personality core. With this body, he has _freedom_. He can move on his own accord without worry of dying a horrible death. No rails, no constraints, no GLaDOS. No turrets, no confining walls, no cords, no darkness, no unexpected shut downs.

It's wonderful. Positively, absolutely, euphorically wonderful.

However, he also has to sleep, eat, shape a mouth around words, and deal with the vast amount of human emotions, sensations, weaknesses, and limitations that come with the package. He's still not entirely with the program, but it's much easier now than what it was.

He's never the first one to admit to being scared, but his first hour as a human had been frightening. Especially the whole emotions part. (Oh, and the things humans could _feel_ and _taste_ and _smell_. Why had no one ever told him about any of this?) When his lanky human body emerged out of stasis after the procedure, everything seemed to have been amplified one thousandfold. He was utterly ravenous and malnourished, but unable to understand what that meant or what it required of him. Walking was a challenge, as was remembering certain things, and constantly _feeling_ was almost too much to bear.

Subjected to sudden bursts of sensory overloads, Wheatley had quickly discovered that pain was not something that he enjoyed. He had also come to the conclusion that humans had to be absolutely mad to suffer all of these things at once. Really, who wouldn't have bats in the belfry after being bombarded with so many sights, sounds, smells, touches, and feelings on a daily basis?

But he's getting used to everything now. He knows that everything has a balance, and it's not so hard to keep a proper equilibrium once you know what to do. There are a few things that still trouble him, but they're not so difficult.

It's getting used to her again that's the hard part.

When he'd found her, he rushed after her, heart thrumming against his ribs (what a _sensation_), not even thinking of what might happen, and tackled her to the ground in a heap, apologies running down his mouth as he gripped her tightly around her waist. It was the first time he'd ever cried (he's not so sure he wants to do that again), and the wetness from his eyes was gently dabbed away by the hem of her coat.

She had realized it was him after the initial shock. She didn't throw him off or give him a broken jaw or anything else she could have done, _should_ have done; instead, she cradled his head in her lap, her hands moving in soothing circles along his broad shoulders. She only stared down at him as he wept his regrets, her brow knitted and her light blue eyes a swirl of thought.

Somehow, Chell had decided to forgive him. If not forgive, then allowed him a chance to vie for it. He still doesn't know why.

But she made it quite clear that she didn't entirely trust him. He never really expected her to, because, well, when someone goes through a phase of power-lust and is hell bent running you through dozens of dangerous tests and then eventually killing you, it might make you a bit tentative to trust them again. He had been… well, a monster. More than a monster, really. There had been something _there_, something nice, a friendship maybe, and somehow in the midst of all of those terrible things in that facility, he had chosen a wrong path and gone off the deep end.

In the back of his mind, he wonders just how much his actions might have damaged her. She's more than capable of taking care of herself physically, as she's proven countless times, so there's no concern there. It's the mental, emotional damage that he's worried about. He can't see it, she can't talk about it, and he has no real way of finding out aside from asking her to write her life's story.

He sits in the den of their flat, biting at his lip and wishing the guilt would go away. Wheatley has long since decided that guilt is by far the most awful human emotion in the spectrum. He's felt something similar as a core in the past, but it was muted and muffled and nothing like this. _This_ eats away at you, slowly, and it seeps into nearly every thought, just as the GLaDOS chassis had.

He shivers just thinking about it. Funny things, shivers. He's not sure he likes them yet.

Wheatley hears the sudden click of the doorknob, and he rises from his chair, broken from his reverie. It's her, and she walks through the threshold with a small plastic bag hung in the bend of her arm, her dark hair brought up into its customary manner. She sees him as he approaches from the living room, and she gives him a slight wave of her hand in salutation.

"Hello," he says, returning the wave. "Glad to see you're back. What've you got there?"

Chell smiles. It's small and worn, but it's a smile, and that's something! She offers her arm, gesturing to the bag.

"For me?" he asks.

She nods.

"Oh, really? What is it? I'm not really very good with guessing games, but I do love presents."

She swats at his him playfully and hands him the bag.

Wheatley peers inside, and is… well, very much surprised. "Are these… glasses?"

Chell nods again. Pressing a finger beneath her eyes, she squints as though she can't see, and then prods gently at his chest.

"Well, I do have to admit, everything is rather blurry," he says. "I just thought it was a human thing, that all of you saw this awful. I suppose it's good to know that it isn't. A human thing. Well, not a _human_ thing, sorry, that's a bit insensitive, I meant—"

He's interrupted by a light punch to his shoulder. Wheatley instantly looks up, startled, and finds that she's staring at him with a half-smirk, her hands placed on her hips. It's one of her _You really should stop now, Wheatley_ stares, and with a nervous swallow, he nods sheepishly and goes back to shifting through the bag's contents.

"Wow, there are a _lot_ of glasses in here," he remarks. "Did you just grab whatever you could find? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Variety can be a good thing. A very good thing."

She shrugs, plucking one pair out from the bag. Unfolding the ends with a strange carefulness, she slides them over his ears, brushing a few strands of his dark brown hair out of the way, and settles the lenses onto the bridge of his nose. She then gives him a questioning look, as if to ask, _Any better?_

Wheatley narrows his eyes. "I think it got a bit worse. It's hard to tell, actually. Everything is still pretty fuzzy."

Her brow furrows, and then the glasses are gone, quickly replaced with another pair. Another look: _What about now?_

He widens his eyes, taking in the world through the lenses. Everything seems more defined; he can see the little details of the furniture, the carpets, the light fixtures on the walls and the ceiling. "Oh, much clearer," he says. "Still a bit blurry, but definitely clearer."

She seems pleased, but she reaches into the bag for several more pairs. She replaces one after another, silently asking if his vision has improved with every set. Some pinch his nose, some hurt his ears, and some make the things around him uncoil into blots. When a particularly sleek, thin-framed pair slides over his nose, he releases a shaky exhale in disbelief. No pain, no fuzzies, and everything looks incredibly perfect.

"This is _amazing_," he says, and spins about the room in a whirl of awe. "It's just like—well, just like before, when I was still a core. It's all clean and crisp, I can see everything. And you—" He draws up to her, studying her face, "—wow, you look incredible like this. Well, not that you didn't look incredible before, sorry, I meant just through this body. Ah, not that human bodies are _bad_ or anything, I just… all right, all right, quit looking at me like that, I'm stopping. Stopping, see? All stopped."

Her shoulders shake in a silent laugh. Even if he can't understand everything about her, at least he can still amuse her. That gives him a touch of solace.

And then he remembers something. It's small and flickering, flashes of information, images and thoughts, glimpses of things he thinks he might have had something to do with, but he can't be sure. On any other occasion, he might ignore them as per usual when little snippets like this happened to bubble to the surface. They've been somewhat frequent since the procedure. But this… this is different. This is an _idea_.

He tries to focus, to reach out and grab hold of it before it slips into nothing. It catches, and he suddenly realizes what it is—a way to have him understand her.

He tries to pinpoint exactly where it came from, but there seems to be a block of some kind obscuring the path. He can't figure out a way to break through. Where on earth does he remember this from? Echoes of miscellaneous data left over from when he had been a personality core? And if it is, why hadn't he been able to remember it before?

"Hang on." Wheatley shifts uneasily, gathering his thoughts, and he hooks his long fingers around her wrist to stop her from walking away. "You know, I… I told you I was sorry that day. That I would take everything back. And I meant it. I meant every word, every last word, and I still do." He looks at her, watching her expression meld with confusion as she turns to face him. "You've done a lot for me, even though you didn't really need to. I mean, if I were you, I wouldn't have had anything to do with me after all of those monstrous things I tried to do, you know, with the whole maniacal _ah ha ha I'm going to kill you_ thing, but you're _not_ me, you're _you_, and—well… I really, really want to do something for you. To… to thank you, and make it up, I suppose, even though that's probably not possible."

Chell peers up at him, her head tilted to the side. Her bangs frame her thin face, accentuating the arch of her eyebrows, the angles of her jaws, the slope of her cheeks. She's intrigued. He knows that much.

He folds his hands and steeples his forefingers toward her. "All right. Now, I realize this may come as a shock to you. Brace yourself, mate, because here it comes." He takes a deep, dramatic breath, and says, "You don't talk."

She crosses her arms gives him another look, one of _those_ looks, the withering kind that says, _Really, what was your first clue?_

"Sorry, sorry, was trying to be funny. Guess it didn't work." He manages a weak smile and scratches the back of his neck. "What I'm trying to say is, wouldn't you want to try? I know it must be frustrating and all, to not be able to get across what you're trying to say. Not everyone is really used to all these hand gestures and body language and all that. I know I'd be frustrated if I were you. Not being able to talk would drive me crazy. And I was thinking about it, you know, and I just had a brainwave. I honestly don't remember why or how I know it, it's a bit fragmented if I'm honest, but it's actually a great idea, and I thought, well, maybe you'd want to give it a go. So what do you say?"

She blinks. Once, twice. And then she shakes her head, as if confused. _What?_

Wheatley rubs his forehead and mentally kicks himself. "Right, right, sorry. I didn't even tell you what it was, did I? It's a simple process. A sort of therapy, really. And it's designed to help people learn how to talk. It's usually applied when someone's got a language disorder or when they've suffered brain damage of some kind. Ah, not that _you're_ brain damaged," he adds, hoping to smooth over the unintentional insult.

Watching him expectantly, Chell holds her palm sideways and moves it in a circular motion. _Keep talking._

"Oh, good. Good. Well, it's got a lot to do with music. I'm not really sure how you feel about music, but it goes like this: it starts with a bit of humming and rhythms, and then it slowly progresses into songs. Songs with words, anyway. And you sort of sing along until you're comfortable with the words, 'til you feel like you can do it without the music. After that, it's only a matter of time before you start talking with different pitches and all, like everyone else."

A strange amalgam of apprehension and uncertainty splays across her countenance. She turns her head to stare at the couch, the chairs, the throw rug, anywhere but him, and she bites at her lip as she dwells on the idea. Her arms are brought against her ribs as if she's trying to keep everything bottled up between them, encasing her problems in blood and flesh and bone.

"You don't trust me." He says it plainly because it's the truth. And even though he already knows, it still makes his chest tighten unpleasantly. He doesn't particularly like that either. "You don't have to if you don't want," he continues. "It's perfectly all right not talking. I mean, I don't think I could live without it, but that's just me. And you… well, you're pretty amazing. You're determined. You don't quit. You can do anything you want, and no one can stop you, so don't let me tell you what to do." Wheatley reaches out and brushes his thumb across her mouth. Offering a cheeky grin, he says, "That being said, even though it's not my place to ask, wouldn't it be nice to use this for something other than silly old human bodily functions for a change?"

She makes a snorting noise and bats his hand away in annoyance, but her lips slowly curve into a slight smile. It's shy and reserved, but there's a sliver of excitement at its edges.

He arches his eyebrows, hopeful. "Is that a maybe?"

Chell ignores him and instead absently stretches out her fingers and adjusts his glasses, moving them just slightly so they align properly with the rest of his face.

Wheatley doesn't really know what to make of that. "Uh, yes, thank you. I suppose they were a bit off."

The pad of her index finger then presses into the end of his nose and she gazes up at him. It's not a threatening gaze, but it's stern, proud, and slightly awkward because he's so tall.

"Ah, yes?" he says, expectant. "I'm… I'm going to be quite honest with you, I have no idea at all what that means. Not even the slightest. So if you could just, just… _gesture_ what you're trying to tell me, that would be great. Or write it down. But gesturing is completely fine. Completely."

Her finger moves down to his chest, and crosses in strange patterns across the fabric of his shirt.

Wheatley feels a jolt of excitement skip from his heart and down his spine, and his body trembles a little.

Chell's sketching spells _yes_.


	2. The Rhythm

Wheatley discovers that this whole therapy idea might be more difficult than he had planned.

After a hearty dinner and a few games of chess with Chell (why does she _always_ win?), he's lying in the soft comfort of his own bed, drifting off under the warm blankets. He feels truly content for the first time since the procedure, and he's more than willing to drop off the world and plunge into the recharge state which humans so desperately require.

And it's then, just as he's balancing on the edge between consciousness and slumber, that he suddenly realizes that he hasn't a clue as to where and how he should begin her therapy.

Alarmed, he bolts upright in the darkness. His stomach performs anxious flops around the space between his ribs, his heart beats just a bit too fast for his liking, and the world seems to be racing past him, adrenaline surging through his veins and rushing between the chambers of his heart.

This, of course, ruins any potential prospect of achieving REM sleep. (He's proud he remembers the term for it, though.)

"This isn't good," he mutters, dabbing the sweat from his hairline. "This isn't good at all." Twisting his mouth in thought, he rubs his heavy eyelids and reaches over to the bedside table, groping for his glasses. When he feels the cool touch of the metal frames, he snatches them up and slides them onto his nose. "All right, Wheatley, calm down and think. Teaching a mute girl how to talk when she hasn't talked in ages shouldn't be too difficult. There has to be somewhere you can start. Music, music, music…"

He closes his eyes, kneads his temples, and tries to remember. Rhythms, beats, melodies, syllables—there must be a place where he can begin without making her too uncomfortable. Dredging up fragments of the learning process, he manages to soothe his nerves a little. Yes, simple things should work. Short phrases, easy songs, words that can easily be repeated. He had even said so himself, right? Humming and rhythms to start. Nothing to worry about. But there's something else—without a plan or proper preparation, nothing will work out the way he wants.

As he continues to rummage through his brain for more ideas, Wheatley absently moves his foot back and forth beneath the covers. The entire goal is to nudge her into the natural patterns of speech, and that might be a challenge without an instrument, musical or otherwise. And when he really thinks about it, he's not so sure if he would be very good at playing a musical instrument. Idle curiosity had once compelled him to look into the complexities of creating music as a personality core, and everything had seemed… well, complex.

Wheatley pulls back and stares at his hands, merely two dark, blotted shadows in front of his face. Do humans really make music with these? He wiggles his fingers, testing their flexibility. Fascinating things, hands, and capable of doing so many different things. If he only could pick up an instrument and play for Chell… that would make things so much easier. He could make the music himself and they wouldn't have to rely on recordings or anything of the like. Oh, such a _grand_ idea. And it would work, too—if he knew how to play.

Wheatley sighs, pressing his chin into the heel of his palm. Learning is an option, but that would take far too long. Besides, he can't even imagine trying to teach both himself and Chell simultaneously. Human brains aren't nearly as efficient at multitasking. He knows; he's been able to draw the comparisons.

He eventually concludes that something needs to be done. There's no doubt about it. But since they're starting small, he decides that it doesn't have to be right away. He has some time yet before the more complicated stuff comes into play, and that's a good thing. Yes, he thinks; everything will be just fine. He'll come up with a solution somehow. He has to in order to help her, and damn if he's going to go back on his word.

In the meantime, he needs a rhythm.

Drumming his fingers along his thigh, he starts to wonder how he can accomplish that. Sure, hands and feet are great, but a constant, definite rhythm is hard to maintain. As a personality core, he could have simply accessed the metronome subroutine in his programming, able to create a sound and continue recreating the same exact sound in any tempo of his choosing. If only there were a way—

And then it hits him.

"A metronome!" he suddenly shouts, his spine jolting straight. "Oh, absolutely brilliant. Why didn't I think of that before? Oh, that should work perfectly. Rhythm troubles? Tada! Not anymore. Metronome, problem solved. Oh, Wheatley, you're a genius. We'll get her talking in no time at all!"

Now feeling quite thrilled with himself, he arches his back, stretches his arms, and promptly rolls out of bed. The floor is chilly against the bare soles of his feet, but he ignores the cold and meanders into the den, pumped too full of adrenaline and excitement for peaceful sleep.

Taking pause by the window, he lifts the blue curtain aside and peers out into the street. Thin lamps stand alone on the corners, flickering, fading beacons into midnight. He watches pinprick stars as they glitter between the light bodies of cirrus clouds, and feels his mood suddenly flop.

"… Where the bloody hell am I going to get a metronome?"

* * *

><p>Wheatley's never been much of anywhere outside their flat. He's walked a couple blocks around here and there for some practice, maybe strolled about a few times with Chell to get used to the general area of where they lived, but he's never really searched for something by himself. He's also never imagined that <em>finding<em> that something would be so incredibly frustrating.

"All right, whose grand idea was it to pack all of these little buildings together like this, anyway? Doesn't seem very organized. Everything all jammed together." He snorts. "Bloody architects."

The air is brisk and chilled. Clad in thick jeans and flannel with a black knitted cap fitted snugly down to his ears, Wheatley huffs crossly as he plods down the streets. His breath unfurls from his mouth in ashen wisps and he's pretty sure his hands have begun to lose their feeling in spite of his warmer clothes. He's been combing the shops that line the streets for the past two hours, peering into windows at random, hoping that he'll stumble across what he's been looking for. The results thus far: no luck.

"You'd think they'd _want_ you to get lost in this bloody place," he mutters, pressing his nose against the glass of another shop. It's cold and it makes him shiver. (He decides that he really, really dislikes low temperatures.) "I mean, at least Aperture had pictures and ramps and catwalks to get you where you're going. None of this _oh we'll just wander around for ages and maybe by some pure miracle we'll have it materialize in front of us_ business. Absolutely ridiculous. I will never, ever understand—"

He stops short as he glances across the street, leaving his thought hanging stranded in mid-air. He peels himself away from the window and squints as he tries to make out the contents of the store from its display case. A small, ticking metronome sits there, dead in its center.

"… Oh. Well, then. Complaint withdrawn."

Wheatley awkwardly pushes through the door of the music shop, the bell chiming softly behind his head. As he steps onto the small rugged welcome carpet, his jaw slackens and he finds himself speechless in what he thinks is shock. Or surprise, at least. He's honestly not quite sure.

All sorts of colors of metals are fashioned into strange shapes. They're almost like the pipes back at the facility, but sleek and shimmering and much, much smaller. Some are twisted into neat designs while others are narrow, adorned with additional pieces of shining metal that look oddly like buttons. Wooden structures of varying sizes with stripes of strings also line the walls, eccentric and glossy and new. It's a bizarre scene, but it ropes him in by the collar.

"So _these_ are instruments," he manages, twisting about to soak in the sight. Even though his glasses have fogged up a little from the rush of warmth from the shop, he can see everything perfectly, glinting at him under the sharp lights overhead. "Brilliant. All of them, just brilliant. Color me impressed!"

"Can I help you?" The clerk stares at him flatly with dark, sleepy eyes, clearly none too pleased at the sudden intrusion.

"Yes, actually," says Wheatley, strutting up to the front desk. He places his hands flat across the worn wooden surface and nods to the display window. "I was wondering if I could have a look at that metronome over there? It's kind of important. Real important, come to think of it. Very much important."

"That's for display purposes only," says the clerk, jowls swaying. He brushes some wisps of gray hair away from his brow and leans a bit closer, as if to get a better look at Wheatley. "If you're interested in purchase, you'll have to choose from those there." He then gestures to the back of the store with a wrinkled, dark-veined hand.

Wheatley cranes his neck and stretches on his toes to see where the man had pointed. "Oh, hell, there're more?"

The clerk purses his lips. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Getting back's going to be a bit of a problem, stupid buildings, but nothing I can't solve." Wheatley's too drawn into the merchandise, shifting through the various types of metronomes. Skimming over their labels and features, his eyes widen when he comes across one in particular. He tugs the box off the shelf and takes a moment to admire the picture printed on the front. "Ha! This is perfect. She'll absolutely love it."

"For a woman?" The clerk raises an eyebrow.

"It's a long story. A very, very long story." Wheatley grins, drawing back up to the desk. "So, uh, I'd like to make a, uh… transaction. How exactly would you go about doing that?"

The man plucks a pair of small circular-framed spectacles from his front pocket and slides them onto his nose. Examining Wheatley's find, he nods to himself. "That's a nice choice, there. Beautiful mahogany. That's going to cost you quite a penny."

"Really? Well, I've got plenty of those." Wheatley starts to reach into his jean pockets to fish for coins. Chell had taught him that much at least.

The clerk shakes his head, stopping him short. "Not literally, boy, not literally. This particular metronome is seventy-nine ninety-five, not including tax. You'll need several _thousand_ pennies for this."

Wheatley frowns. "Several thousand? Are you sure? I don't think I have that many. Quite positive, actually. Pockets only hold so much."

"If you don't have the money, I'm afraid I won't be able to sell it to you." The clerk shrugs.

"Is there another way I could buy it, maybe? I mean, I'm not exactly—" He shifts, something catches his eye, and he immediately drops the thought. "Wait, wait, what's that over there?"

The man looks up from the metronome box, confused. "What's what?"

Wheatley points over to one of the backmost corners of the shop with a long, bony finger. A large black structure is set up there, shaped rather peculiarly and supported by three legs. A long row of white and black switches lines the front, and a small wooden bench sets just in front of it.

"Oh, that," says the clerk, regaining his previous nonchalance. "It's a piano. Why, haven't you ever seen one?"

But Wheatley's not listening. He approaches it with tentative steps, feeling _something_, something he just can't pin, and all he can think is that he's got to get closer and see it for himself. He stretches out a hand and presses it along the cool surface of the piano, sliding along as he circles the instrument, and there's a _spark_.

"I… think I remember," he says quietly, slumping onto the bench. "I think I remember this." Chewing on his lower lip, he cracks his knuckles and flexes the tendons in his hands, and then, hesitantly, sets his fingers over the long row of white and black. He applies gentle pressure, slowly, slowly, and they begin to sink under the weight.

Sounds chime from inside the piano, hammers knocking against resonance string, and Wheatley feels his body seize up. He knows this. God, he knows this. Why?

And then his mouth is parted in awe as he watches his hands skip across the switches, fingers bending and stretching across the cold sable and ivory, his feet instinctively going for the pedals below the bench. Simple notes at first, disconnected and disjointed and alone, but they soon weave into shaky melodies, smoother songs, things he swears he's heard before, and the swelling feeling in his chest is starting to make him short of breath because all of this is so _different_, so _familiar_, why can't he remember, what's going on—

"You're rather talented." The clerk emerges behind him, his hands crossed behind his back, his mouth a thin, thoughtful line. "I wouldn't have guessed."

Wheatley's eyes are wide and his shoulders are shaking. He can see the notes fly past, anticipating where his fingers press next. "Oh, man alive, I don't even know what I'm doing! I think I've gone mad or something. I—I can't stop."

The clerk clicks his tongue. "Interesting."

Wheatley glances over his shoulder, visibly distressed. "_Interesting_? I'm having some sort of creepy, inexplicable moment here, and all you can say is _interesting_?"

"To be fair," says the clerk, "this isn't something you see every day."

"Every day? I haven't seen one of these things in my life!" Wheatley takes a few short, uneven breaths, watching his hands and their melodies as they cross the keys, _keys_, and he then amends, "Well, I—I think so, at least. But I must have, right? Or this wouldn't be happening. Not unless I've really, really gone off it and I'm still dreaming out there somewhere but—no, wait, I wouldn't be dreaming in that case. This would all be simulated and I'd be shut down. Well, if this is a simulation, I quit." His gaze darts up to the ceiling, harsh and accusing, as though GLaDOS were watching him from somewhere along the woodwork. "You hear that? I quit!"

The man pockets his glasses and presses a thick hand over Wheatley's shoulder. "Calm down and stop spouting nonsense. Black Mesa and the Combine were put out generations ago."

Wheatley hasn't the faintest idea what he's talking about, but it's not helping.

"Besides, I'm quite real, and this is definitely not a dream. I can't vouch for your… mental soundness, however." A soft chuckle rumbles from the man's chest.

"Yeah, real funny. Keep laughing." Wheatley swallows, his hands finally coming to a slow. He can see the end of the song in his mind's eye, every stanza, every note. "This is incredible. It is, isn't it? Tremendous. Who would've thought…"

"Perhaps an arrangement can be made."

"What?"

The clerk folds his hands across his stomach, rubbing his thumbs together. "About the metronome."

"Really?" Delighted, Wheatley jumps up from his seat, everything forgotten. The bench is knocked backward onto the floor; a wincing crash. "Do you mean that? You're not just saying that, are you?"

"Thomas Key." Extending his hand, the man offers a wan smile. "And I'll consider it—if you can play like that again."


	3. The Trade

Wheatley's gone missing, and Chell is really starting to worry.

It's not that she thinks he can't take care of himself. She _knows_ he can't take care of himself. Despite his very adult body, his knowledge of anything that isn't Aperture is sorely lacking. (Even his knowledge about Aperture could be argued.) He's naïve, clumsy, has the mentality of a child, and his curiosities about everything human seem to be limitless.

She's still adjusting to the situation of living with someone, especially someone as eccentric as Wheatley, but it's been long enough that she has a good grasp on his routines. He's never missed a meal. Ever since she had shown him how to satiate the growling in his stomach and had managed to gesture what it meant, he's made a point to be present for every one, effectively putting some much needed meat on his bones. The concept of "ingesting physical sustenance" seems to fascinate him right along with the countless flavors and tastes and textures available to sample. When she crawls out of bed, she knows exactly what to expect: him waiting for her in the kitchen with his charming habitual chatter, his mop of hair disheveled and uncombed, his astonishing blue eyes bright with life and energy.

Today, that hadn't been the case.

When he hadn't appeared for breakfast, Chell had nudged open his door to check on him. What she found was a Wheatley-sized depression in the sheets with discarded pajamas and other articles of clothing lying about in a pile on the floor. The hat she had given him was missing from its normal spot on the bed post as well, and that had told her all that she needed to know. He had gone outside.

Chell knows that sometimes he'll meander out and about. It's not uncommon and it doesn't worry her because she always knows where he is. He does a perfect job of letting her know that he's leaving and he always gives an estimate of when he'll return. _Oh, about twenty minutes_ usually tends to be an hour, but she's come to expect that, too.

But this time, he hadn't said anything. Nothing at all. Just… up and gone. And it's been three hours and thirty two minutes since she woke to find him missing. Not that she's been keeping track or anything.

Chell rubs at her eyes and stretches out on the couch, feeling tired from staring too long at the door. Whether she likes it or not, he's her responsibility. The moment she had decided to forgive him and take him in, he became her responsibility. She knows it's going to be that way until he can fully take care of himself.

Still, it doesn't stop her from brooding. This is not how she had wanted to spend her day off. She could have gone out grocery shopping or walking in the park or… or _something_. Anything would be far more productive than listlessly waiting here for him to show up again. She's manage to count the visible floor panels four times—_four times_, four hundred and thirty-six panels, five hundred twelve if you lift the tasseled throw rugs—and she's starting to run out of ideas of things to occupy herself other than scowling at the door or at the ceiling. It feels like Aperture all over again.

It's then that the door swings open, hitting the back wall with a loud _slam_. Wheatley bursts in, a box held tightly in his hands. His face is flushed from the cold, as are the tips of his ears, and he seems to unravel in shivers as he embraces the warmth of the house.

"Oh, god, does that ever feel incredible," he groans, hooking his shoe around the edge of the door to swing it closed. "It's bloody freezing out there. I really should have worn a few extra shirts. And trousers. And probably socks, too. I think my toes are frozen. I'm not even going to begin with the rest of me because _wow_ is it ever cold outside. I'm so, so very glad heat exists right now." Wheatley succumbs to another shiver.

Recovered from the shock, Chell quickly leaps up from her place on the couch and storms across the den. Her muscles are tense, and just as she begins to gesticulate exactly how much trouble he's in, he leans down and grins at her, his cheeks rosy and his glasses all a-fog.

"Oh, what luck, I'm glad you're home—you're not going to _believe_ this! Well, actually, you might believe it, I'm not really sure, I had a real hard time believing it myself so I guess you might, too, but anyway, here, have a look!" He eagerly presses the box into her stomach, one of his cold hands guiding her to hold onto it. God, freezing is right.

She does as she's told, turning it about so she can inspect the writing and pictures on the sides. It's rather heavy, and from the snippets written on its surface, it seems to be a rhythm device of some kind. Something to keep beats? How strange. Feeling rather lost as to why this is so exciting (and how it managed to warrant skipping breakfast for god only knows what reason for three hours), she shrugs her shoulders and gives him a thoroughly confused look.

"Well, what do you think?" Static crackles along the fabric of his hat as he pulls it off, and strands of brown hair stand straight for the ceiling. He huffs and tries to smooth it down, but it doesn't work. "Ugh, bloody cold weather," he mutters sourly. "Anyway, you like it? It's a metronome, and it's supposed to help set rhythms. It's going to be brilliant for when we get started. Oh, and I had the most exhilarating morning, you'll never guess what happened, you're going to _love_ this—"

Chell stops him with a curt punch to his chest. It's not overly rough, but more than enough to get his attention.

"Ouch," he murmurs, lapsing into a frown as he nurses the offended area along his pectorals. "What was that for? I thought you'd be happy. What'd I do?"

She's not sure how to properly articulate her frustration, so she sets the box at her feet, curls her fingers halfway toward her palms, brings them toward her face, and shakes them with her teeth bared.

"Uh, all right, that's definitely angry," Wheatley says, taking a step back and holding up his arms in surrender. "I'm not… really sure why you're angry, but if I had anything to do with it, I'm sorry. And I mean that, not just because I don't want to get hit again. Well, I _don't_ want to get hit again, but I really do mean that, believe me." He attempts an awkward smile, but it fades when she continues glaring at him. "It's… it's not because I left, is it?"

Chell nods slightly, but she wants to say that that's not all of it. Shaking her head, she gestures to him, and then out the window with splayed fingers. When he offers a clueless shrug, she repeats the motion, but then brings her fists against her heart and tries to create her best _I was WORRIED about you, moron_ expression.

That seems to do the trick. "Oh," he says, his shoulders slumping a little. "I suppose I didn't think about that. You worrying. If that's even what you're saying. It's just—well, I thought about it in the middle of the night and I was just so excited to go and find that for you that I could hardly sleep, and… well, I went out. Didn't want to wake you up or anything, I kind of wanted it to be a surprise, you know? Something to give you a good start. For the talking thing. Sorry it didn't really turn out that way. I, uh, more or less got lost trying to find the place. Took a while. Personally, I blame human architecture."

Amused, Chell faintly wonders if he's aware that Aperture had been built by humans. And then as the rest of his words sink in, she feels a twinge of surprise overtake her. Just how long has he been gone? Pointing to the clock beside the door frame, she gestures outside again, this time with a shrug of her shoulders, hoping he would get the picture.

"How long…?" he asks, an eyebrow arched.

Chell replies with a frantic nod.

"Oh. Oh, good. I didn't think I'd got that. Well, see, funny thing. I sort of… don't remember. Oh, don't look at me like that—you've got to understand, I was really excited about this. It was dark when I left, though, I can tell you that much. It must have been a long time. I mean, I did miss breakfast." As if to punctuate his point, his stomach begins to make strange gurgling noises under the fabric of his shirt. He laughs awkwardly, cheeks reddening, and not from the lingering cold.

She gives a light sigh and rubs her forehead. Wheatley, same as always. Gently, she reaches for one of his large hands, chilled and slightly shaking, and a static shock pops between them as she touches his fingers and squeezes them with her own; a touch of reassurance, acceptance, apology. She feels him tremble, and she gazes up at him and the thinness of his face, his pink-tipped ears and the slight stubble on his chin, the vibrant blue of his eyes seeming familiar and warm.

Wheatley licks his lips and tries again to smooth down the shocks of hair that insist on standing upright with his other hand. It doesn't work. "So, uh, is everything all right now?" he asks. "Because I'd really, really, _really_ like to tell you what happened. And I think I might spark you again if I don't say something soon. Not that that was unpleasant or anything."

Chell laughs silently. Picking up the metronome box, she nods and leads him toward the kitchen. Wheatley takes his usual seat at their tiny two-seat table by the window and watches her as she sets the box on the white countertop and starts to poke around through the cabinets for a frying pan.

Wheatley stretches his long legs across to the other chair, settling in. "All right, now, to make things perfectly clear, I am not crazy and this actually did happen. No dreaming, no simulations, this happened, the end. Well, not the end—I haven't started yet, but you know what I mean."

Chell pauses and looks over her shoulder to see him as he sinks into what she likes to call his "rambling stance." His hands are folded in his lap with his thumbs steepled together, his glasses resting a little farther down the bridge of his nose. His broad shoulders are relaxed and the rest of him slumps comfortably into the chair, his feet crossed and resting on the seat of the other. She rolls her eyes, continuing her search for the frying pan. He's so ridiculous.

"Right, so there I was," he continues, "looking and looking for somewhere to get a metronome, taking ages because humans can't build anything right. I'm thinking _oh this is bloody awful I'm never going to find it_, but then, suddenly, like some sort of miracle, there's one right across the way! I go in the shop, and when I get in there, it's _amazing_, instruments and pipes and everything, never seen anything like it before in my life. I ask the bloke there about the metronome, and he shows me that there's _tons_ of them, absolutely tons, so I've got to go and look for the best one you know, can't have a bad one of those, but then he goes and says that I've got to give him thousands of pennies for it. I'm thinking he's mad—no one could possibly carry that many pennies, not even me—but then I see this thing in the back, another instrument of some kind, different from all the others, and I feel this… this tug. I can't really explain it, you know? It's a tug, and I just _had_ to go see what it was, and—and you… do you want help with that? Looks like you're having a bit of trouble there."

She realizes that Wheatley is craning his neck to look at her as she struggles to reach for the frying pan from the top shelf of one of the overhead cabinets. She can't quite touch the handle; her hand is inches away, even when she's on the tips of her toes. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Chell lowers her feet flat to the floor and assumes a sulking frown. Who had put the damn thing up there, anyway? Certainly not her.

Wheatley chuckles as he rises from his chair. Drawing up to her side, he grabs a hold of the pan and brings it down with ease, holding out for her to take. "Here you go, mate," he says, offering a smile. "All you had to do was say something. Well, figuratively speaking, of course. A wave'll do."

Chell accepts the frying pan with a silent nod of thanks and sets it on the stove top. She slips over to the fridge and roots through the shelves, withdrawing a couple of eggs, jam, and butter. After depositing them on the counter next to the oven, she plucks a sharp knife from the dish drainer and curls an arm around the loaf of bread that she had bought the other day. As she starts to cut off even slices to warm for breakfast, she notices that Wheatley isn't talking. Curious, she peers over her shoulder and notices that he's watching her.

_What?_ she wants to say, but all she can manage is a shake of her head and a confused shrug.

"Hm? Oh, sorry. I, uh… lost my train of thought. But don't you worry, though, old Wheatley'll find it in a minute." The tips of his ears are pink again and he absently glances out the window, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "So do you think—would be it all right if I watch while I finish my story? I won't get in your way, I promise. I'll just kind of stand over to the side there… you know, not being in the way."

She's not really sure what to make of that, but she nods, unable to find a reason to tell him no.

"Brilliant," he says, taking a spot against the counter. He leans against the edge and looks down at her work eagerly. "The things you make always smell so good. They taste good, too. But the smells are the best, I think. Or—well, I can't choose. They're just all really, really good." He makes a pleased, low-purring hum in the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as a dreamy expression smoothes across his face, as if he's remembering each sensation.

Chell feels a little flushed. Quickly, she bring her attention back to the tasks before her, focusing on cutting another two slices from the loaf. When she's finished, she tips some oil into the pan and turns on the burner beneath. As she's waiting for the oil to heat, she hears Wheatley snap his fingers together.

"Ah, now I remember," he says. "He called it a piano. That thing I was talking about, the instrument. I've never heard of a piano before, but it was… oh, it was marvelous. You haven't heard of one, have you?"

She furrows her brow in thought. She thinks she can vaguely remember the names of musical instruments, but she can't bring forward any images or sounds. It's all very disjointed and blurry.

"I suppose that's a no. Well, that's all right. Let me tell you, it's tremendous. The sounds, the keys, everything, absolutely wonderful. I don't know what happened, but it's like I could see everything in front of my eyes, just running along there, and I understood all of the little dots and lines. I made music when I didn't think I had it in me. I mean, look at these!" He extends his hands toward her, grinning, and she can see the lifelines crisscross along his palms. "I can _use_ these. I played something, mate. I haven't the faintest idea what it was, but that's not the point, I actually _played_ something, and it sounded perfect. Oh, and the feeling, it was… well, it was scary to be quite honest, but only at first, only at first, and then it was just the most incredible thing, I can't even describe—uh… I think the pan is hissing. Spitting, actually. Might want to take care of that. No rush, though, no rush."

Chell jumps in surprise, realizing that she's been so enthralled in his story that she had forgotten to watch the frying pan. Gritting her teeth, she quickly turns the heat down a couple notches, ignoring the tiny spots of hot oil that spatter onto her face and hands. She bites her lip as she begins to crack the eggs, tentatively knocking the side of each against the cast-iron and then plopping the contents inside. She discards the shells on the countertop in a little pile.

Wheatley watches with interest, and then glances back to his hands. "Wish I could do that," he says solemnly, flexing his long fingers. "You make it look so easy."

At that, Chell is struck with a sudden idea. Suppressing a grin, she takes a spatula out of its drawer and gently prods him in the side with its end. Wheatley looks up, startled, and then quirks an eyebrow when she motions beside her with the utensil.

"A-all right then," he says, and takes a few awkward steps toward the stove.

When he doesn't come near enough, Chell holds out her hand and tugs on his sleeve.

"Closer then?" He inches a bit more toward her. "This all right?"

She nods, satisfied, and Wheatley smiles as she flips the eggs.

She thinks she surprises him when she covers the back of his hand with her own and brings it up toward his chest. She holds it there for a few moments, watching his eyes as they skim from her to her arm and back to her again, and then she holds it out over the stove, circling it around, as if to say, _all of this_. Wheatley looks hopelessly confused, but she continues, drawing a fist against her heart, up to her open mouth, and then releasing her fingers, symbolizing words. Or so she hopes.

He runs a hand through his hair. "Not to discredit your amazing gesturing or anything—because it really is quite amazing, let me tell you, the best I've ever seen—but I'm not following you at all here."

Chell rubs her forehead in thought. When she spies the forgotten metronome box, she draws a sharp inhale, excited, and then scoops it up into her hands. Eagerly, she takes Wheatley's open palm and gives him the box. She then guides his other hand over the stove again, eventually pulling her fist back against her mouth. _Words and food_. Chell sees that he's still not getting it, and so she takes the metronome and swaps it with the spatula in her hand.

Wheatley's eyes widen in understanding. "_Oh_. An exchange? A trade?"

She nods emphatically, grinning.

"You'll teach me if I teach you?"

Chell nods again, feeling strangely elated.

"I'd never thought of that," he says, his thumb scratching his chin in contemplation. "That's a good idea. A wonderful idea, in fact. Oh, this'll be brilliant!" He succumbs to a wide, charming smile, his delight as expressive and plain as can be.

Smiling suits him, she decides. It's fantastic and infectious, and it brings out the blue in his eyes.

"Consider it done, mate. We'll start first thing tomorrow, bright and early, after breakfast of course, and we'll get you right to talking." He extends his right hand. "How's that sound?"

She looks at his outstretched fingers, unsure. She'd never taught him about shaking hands. Where had he learned that?

Wheatley wrinkles his nose. "Hang on. Do you smell that?"

Chell's eyes widen.

She would have shaken his hand if the eggs hadn't been burning.


	4. The Melody

Chell feels nervous. Trembles shake along her shoulders and roll down her back, and nothing's even happened yet.

Wheatley is tinkering with the metronome on the carpet. He's in front of the couch, hunched over, and has somehow managed to get himself covered in pieces of tape and the off-white styrofoam packaging bits from the box. He's still wearing his bedclothes, a mélange of dark navies and threads of silver, his short brown hair a sleepy and tousled mess.

"Almost got it," he says, readjusting his glasses. "Just messing with the settings a bit. I think this should do it… maybe… Ah, yes, there it goes. Brilliant!"

A rhythmic _tock-tock-tock _begins to thrum throughout the room, and Wheatley thrusts his arms upward in a thrilled yelp, reveling in the victory. He seems to realize that he's alone in his celebration after a few moments of posing, however, and so he glances over his shoulder, gazing at her worriedly.

"You okay over there? You're awfully quiet. Well, not quiet, sorry, shouldn't have said that. I meant… still. No, no, not still, that doesn't—well, yes, all right, still. Sorry, I'm not helping at all. Are you all right?"

Chell is huddled up on the end of the couch, farthest away from the metronome. She wants to be okay, she really does, but it feels like something is twisting around in her stomach, and it refuses to go away. She's even not sure why she feels like this. Everything had been so perfect yesterday in spite of the eggs. Are these second thoughts? Misgivings?

She hasn't spoken in… god, it's been so long, she can't even remember. Is she actually capable of speech? And what if she isn't? Would Wheatley still want to help? She bites her lip and crosses her arms over her belly, drawing her knees up against her chest as she tries to ignore the writhing anxiety inside of her. No, she doesn't want to think about that. She really doesn't.

"Hm… That definitely looks like a no. Hang on, hang on, sit tight." Wheatley grunts as he uses the muscles in his lanky limbs and lifts himself off the floor. He staggers for a moment, waiting for his equilibrium to realign, and when he's satisfied that he can walk without toppling over, he brushes off the styrofoam dots (tape is still sticking to his pajama bottoms) and plops himself down beside her on the couch. She feels the cushion sink toward him, and she sinks along with it.

"So," he says, "what's the matter? You've been distant all morning. Oh, that's what it was, _distant_!" He snaps his fingers emphatically. "_That's_ what I was trying to say. Distant, not still. Bloody memory. Not nearly as efficient as a database. I don't know how any of you go on without one. Kind of miss it sometimes, to be perfectly honest."

Chell sighs heavily, burying her face against the back of the couch. Her dark hair is loose, and it tumbles in front of her eyes, effectively hiding her from him. While she appreciates his concern, she's not sure if there's anything he can do about this. It's apprehension and fear, knotting together so tightly that she's starting to think it would hurt more if they were to uncoil.

Wheatley pauses for a moment, studying her as if contemplating his next approach, and then he mimics her, bringing his face a few inches away. She can hear his steady breathing, the constant ticking of the metronome, and the cushion sinks back a little further.

"So, we're just going to play at this then?" he asks, peering at her between strands of her hair. "Not a problem. I can do that. I've got all the time in the world. Well, until lunch, at least. Can't miss that. But I've got all the time in the world until lunch, so you can just sit there and get cozy. I'll be waiting right here."

She sighs again and resists the urge to push him off the couch. Now she remembers why he had been so irritating.

Wheatley shifts a little, stretching his legs. "Right then! What to do for fun? Well, I'm not very good at guessing games, certain I've told you that before, but let's give it a shot. Couldn't hurt to try, right? Brush up a bit. Let's play… how about… oh, I know, let's play _what's bothering the girl in front of me_. Brilliant idea, I know. No, no, you don't have to thank me, I get it all the time. It's a talent. Got a knack for ideas. Absolute natural."

Chell brushes the hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. She narrows her gaze and gives him a sulking look, one that says _you're really not helping_, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Ah, and there's our participant now, finally out of the shadows," he says, flashing a smug grin. "Now, the whole point of the game is to guess what's wrong, but I'll be a good host and ask her if she'll tell us anyway. Lady, would you mind?"

Chell glares and shifts back against the arm of the couch.

Wheatley tsks at her. "Well, that was a right nasty scowl. Thought you'd be excited. You certainly were yesterday. Or at least it seemed like you were." He adjusts himself on the cushion, crossing his legs in front of him to face her as she huddles at the end. "You can tell me," he says, holding out a gentle hand. "Or, you know, gesture. I know we've still got that—well, the whole trust thing. And I understand, I do, I really do, but I promise, I _promise_, I'm not like that. I really do want to help."

She trembles a little. What she wouldn't give to tell him that for once, it's not him.

"You're… you're not nervous about all this, are you?" Wheatley tries to catch her gaze, leaning slightly forward, but she keeps it focused on her knees. "You are, aren't you?"

The _tock-tock-tock_ of the metronome seems to echo between her ribs. Slowly, she manages a nod.

Wheatley laces his fingers together and drops his stare to his socks. "I'm nervous, too."

Chell glances up, surprise rippling through her. Wheatley, nervous?

"I know, I really shouldn't be. Kind of sprung that on you there, sorry." An awkward laugh shakes him, and he runs a hand through the disheveled mess on his head. "I've never done this before. Therapy. Or at least I don't think I have. I've been going on a memory, but it's… it's like it's incomplete. I can't access all of it, like half of it is someplace else, stored in another file, blocked off." He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing along his throat. "And—well, everything's sort of muddled. More than half of it I don't understand. I've been like this for a week or so now, but this whole business with the piano, this body, humans, food, touching, feelings, memories, all of it, all of it is new. I've never experienced anything like this before. But you know what? You know the one thing that isn't new, the one thing I recognize from before, the one friend I made back there in that awful place?"

Chell finds herself leaning forward, drawn in by the natural lilt of his voice. Her heart is starting to thump whimsical rhythms inside of her because she thinks she knows but she's not certain, she doesn't want to say, she can't be that important, she's never been.

He looks at her behind the thin frames of his glasses, a faint smile thinning across his lips, his eyes a warm comfort. "It's you. Just in case you didn't get that. And as crazy as it sounds, you're like… you're like my management rail. I know that sounds bloody ridiculous, trust me, but hear me out, all right? Hear me out. After I got out of Aperture, I just… panicked. I was left in that field and I didn't know what to do, being slammed in this fleshy thing. No experience, no files, no database, no nothing—but you, you picked me up, you really did, and you got me on track. And most of all, you taught me how to actually _be_ this."

He motions to his lanky body, as if to present himself for examination. Chell gazes at him, flitting from limb to limb, muscle and bone, and then at last to his face; thin and somewhat young, shaped by angular jaws. He offers an uneasy chuckle, seeming embarrassed.

"Well, for the most part," he amends. "Still catching up on some things here and there and there's a few gadgets I haven't quite figured out, but—but that's not what I'm trying to say. What I'm _trying_ to say is… you don't have to be nervous. And if you are nervous, well, that's all right, because I'm nervous right here with you. So if you want, I can try to be your management rail. I've never really been a rail before, but I'll bloody well try my best if it'll make you feel better."

He places a hand on her knee. It's warm, and the heat seems to spread down her calves, along her thighs, up to her ribcage, into her heart. He smiles at her, pressing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"And I know it probably won't mean much coming from me, coming from little Wheatley who's not much help to anyone, but…" His fingers squeeze, skin pulling taut over bone. "I think I'd like to hear your voice. I'd like to hear you hum with me, and sing and talk and maybe even have a conversation. And… and well, I think you'd be brilliant. I know you would."

It's almost too much to absorb at once. The understanding comes in short, cognitive bursts. First: _a friend?_ And then, _why is he calling me a rail?_ And then, _he wants to be MY rail?_ And then, _nervous, nervous together, the both of us_, and then _he wants to hear me talk and—and sing._

Chell doesn't know why, but he sounds so sincere, and she finds belief spiderwebbing through her, taking roots into her chest, gripping tight beneath her lungs. Does he really care that much? She can't imagine being cared for, not like this; she doesn't know what it's like. She's always had to fend for herself, always, fighting and scrounging and running and focusing on staying alive, making it to the next chamber, holding the things that keep her from parting at the seams into a patchwork of flesh and bone on the floor.

Chell feels everything start to crumble, cracking beneath her, and she falls and flounders and the worries slowly begin to unravel with the rhythmic beats of the metronome, loosening coils around her heart, and she heaves a trembling breath that shakes her back as she breaks into a smile.

"Ah, there it is. Knew it was hiding in there somewhere." Wheatley reaches over and thumbs a lock of her hair away from her face. "Looks much better when you do that."

She can only nod, breathless.

He rises from the couch and offers her his hand. He towers over her, steady and strong. "Ready to give it a try?"

Chell swallows uneasily, but she stretches her fingers toward him, reaching, quivering, almost there, not quite, just a bit more—

And Wheatley closes the distance and holds tight, engulfing her palm.

"Come on," he says invitingly, pulling forward, lifting her off the safety of the couch.

She places her feet onto the floor, her toes sinking into the plush carpet. She's unsteady and swaying, but he's holding onto her, a lifeline, a rail, and she won't fall. Chell brings one leg forward and shifts her body, meaning to approach the metronome, but her knees buckle beneath her. Stumbling, she feels the muscles in her arm strengthen, swinging her weight, and the arc of her frame slams into the flat plane of Wheatley's chest.

He coughs from the force of the impact. "All right, was _not_ expecting that," he manages. "You okay? Not hurt, are you? Oh, good. Brilliant, then just on the floor there. There you go, that's it. Wow, that was something."

Chell is lowered beside the metronome and she tentatively lets go of his hand. She can feel the ticking work its way into her internal rhythms. She worries at her lip with her teeth, and when Wheatley sits down beside her, fingers rubbing where she had crashed into him, she curls her arms around her ribcage in attempt to placate her blossoming anxiety.

"All right then," he says, crossing his legs, "before we get started, let's just get a few things straightened out. Nothing big or anything, so don't worry, just little questions that'll help me out. Hopefully." He settles his hands on his thighs, slumping his shoulders as he tries to get comfortable. "I know memory is a tricky sort of deal, so we'll jump from there. Do you remember anything? About music, I mean. Most anything will work. Even simple things, maybe, like nursery rhymes. You know, Mary Had a Little Lamb, Three Blind Mice, London Bridge, other children's songs—things like that?"

Chell hugs herself a little tighter. She tries to remember, grasping about in the dark for pieces of her childhood, fumbling for fragments, but nothing comes forth, nothing but white and black and orange. Slowly, she shakes her head.

"No? Hm." He strokes his chin, the pad of his thumb scratching along coarse stubble. "Well, that's unfortunate. But no matter! Wheatley'll take care of it. I happen to know of several we can start with."

He clears his throat and reaches for the metronome, his fingers flipping the _tock-tock-tock_ to a slower beat. She notes that his face has begun to flush, and she watches him lick his lips as he straightens his back, his eyes looking at the machine in front of them with an apprehensive stare.

"Uh, and just as a little forewarning—a caveat of sorts, you know, just before we start, something I think you should know—I… I can't sing. Well, I _can_ sing, I'm just not very good at it. Don't let that discourage you, though, that's a problem with me, not with you. I'm certain your voice won't sound like mine. Well, almost certain. But don't think about it too much. Not going to be singing for a while anyway. All right? All right. Brilliant." He nods to himself and cracks his knuckles, setting his jaw determinedly. "We're going to start easy. First, I'm going to hum a melody. It's not going to be difficult or anything, just nice and simple, ranging a good bit of notes, and it's going to be in time with the metronome. Every beat will signal the stress of a word. I've slowed it down quite a bit so you can get used to the idea and follow along. All you need to do right now is listen and focus on the rhythm. Breathe with it, and listen."

He glances to her, his eyes an amalgam of blue and fear and anticipation. Wheatley draws in a deep breath, and Chell sees his chest expand and contract as he releases the air through clenched teeth.

"Right then. Let the lesson begin."

And with that, he begins to hum.

It's a low and thrumming noise in his throat. A soft tenor; quiet, but not unpleasant. The tune that rumbles from him is slow and leisurely and somehow familiar (she _swears_ she's heard it before, but where, _where_), and it falls perfectly into the steps of the metronome's lead. Chell finds herself closing her eyes, letting the song seep into her, feeling the beat pulse beneath her skin, under her eyelids, through her veins. Pressure is applied to her lips as she listens to the melody, and she wants to do something, to join in, to help, and the muscles in her throat struggle as she opens her mouth and tries to shape it around the sounds. Everything feels disconnected but strangely linked, and she senses a tightness in her chest that hasn't been there before, resisting, fighting, forcing its way through, climbing up the ladder of her ribs.

Chell breathes. She breathes, slowly, sucking in the rhythm and the song and holding it between her lungs. Wheatley's humming is growing stronger, more confident, and his voice strengthens and seems to lift her off her feet. Elation bursts inside her stomach, flowering along her hips, curling along her collarbone and down the curved vertebrae of her spine, and it fills her head to toe, pushing past her heart, through her legs, into her head and beyond her mouth, flooding, pressing—and with a sudden flicker of rapture, she opens her eyes.

Something is strange, _resonating_, and she feels it echo inside of her, a swell of strength. The metronome is tocking back and forth, thumping with the beat of blood rushing through, and a shock of warmth envelops her shoulder, a hand.

_Listen. Focus on the rhythm. Breathe with it, and listen._

She doesn't let go. She grasps onto the feeling and holds it with all her might. Her throat hurts, it hurts, but she continues to breathe and concentrates all her worth into the thrum, holding it, capturing it inside of her, and then she lets it carry, letting it roll up her chest and thrive on the tip of her tongue, and the world seems to blur and darken around her.

Wheatley's voice is gone. She's not sure how long it's been gone, but it is, vanished into silence, and nothing is left but the mechanical beat of the metronome and her heart—

And the soft, shivering hum of her voice.


	5. The Voice

Wheatley is spellbound.

Chell's voice is faint, wavering in strength as she draws out the single note, but it's still there, _existing_, pouring out of her mouth, and it's the most wonderful thing he's ever heard.

In all of their time in Aperture Laboratories—and even in the short time thereafter—he's never heard a vocal sound from her. Not a single one. Not a scream, not a cry, not even a groan of pain. Everything she could have said, she kept silent, trapped within the confines of her throat, always fronted with a stoic façade. He can't fathom how she's managed to lock her voice inside herself so tightly for so long. It's a foreign concept; it feels unnatural to him to never talk.

That's why he knows that this is something secret, something private and extraordinary, barred by muscle and iron resolve. It's something that's very much a part of her and the inner thoughts she keeps, something she's never shown anyone, and he knows that in this instant, he's been privileged. No one else will ever see this moment. No one else besides him. She trusts him and him alone, even if it's just enough to let him see this happen, and that knowledge plunges a hot, visceral spear of tingling euphoria into the hollow of his chest.

Wheatley grips her shoulder, offering his silent support, his body a bundle of trembling limbs. He wants so badly to say something, to break her out of her trance and bring her sprawling back to reality so he can tell her how _happy_ he is for her and how _amazing_ she sounds and how _incredible_ she looks with her arms folded over the soft white of her shirt and her head lolled back toward the ceiling and her hair draping down the nape of her neck, ghosting the tops of her shoulder blades—but he bites his tongue and swallows the urge.

He knows he can't interfere. He knows it's something that can't be hindered or interrupted; it has to run its course and unfurl on its own if she's going to grow. Only she can do this. Only she can rise up and grasp her voice and bend it to her will, and he refuses to ruin this for her by acting on his own stupid fleshy human impulses. He's ruined too many things already. Far too many things. _Moron._

Wheatley stays quiet, his teeth sinking further into the flesh of his tongue. He watches her as the hum pulls out of her throat and into the warm air, mixed with the sounds of his short breaths and the ever-present beat of the metronome. No matter how much he wants to speak, no matter how much the tumult of his inner emotions struggle against his better judgment, he keeps his mouth shut tight, and it's so hard because his thoughts are a rolling thunderstorm and he feels caught under an onslaught of everything, of disbelief and awe and admiration and _satisfaction_ and—and fear.

It grips him at the base of his spine and sends its tendrils up the curvature of his back. He doesn't know why, he really doesn't; this is so _incredible_, how could anyone ever be afraid, not with her; but he can only associate this irrational surge of thought with fear.

What if she won't need him anymore?

Not now, but when she masters everything?

Fragments swim before him in an ocean: patients come and go, disorders are treated and addressed, attachments are made and broken, frowns vanish and smiles begin, melodies swell and rhythms fade. He doesn't know where this is from, but it's an opened floodgate in the back of his skull, and images engulf him in eddying waves. Lab coats and stark white and cold floors and _people_—

And then a small hand is placed between his pectorals, pressing gently. The gate slams shut, and his attention is thrust back to the woman sitting in front of him. She looks breathless and tired, but she's smiling. Her eyes are a cool blue, nearly grey, and they stare up at him with an eagerness that makes his throat tighten.

Wheatley forces a swallow, his hand sliding from her shoulder to rest down the bend of her spine. Everything is warm, and he fights the tremors that wobble down his arms. "You did it," he says, his voice somewhat hoarse. "You did it. You really did it. Can you _believe_ that? You only had to listen, you didn't need to do anything, but you—you're bloody amazing, you _did_ it."

Chell's fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, and she's aglow with thrill. Her muscles contract as she curls forward, seeming overwhelmed, and he feels her forehead connect against his chest. Suddenly alive with shivers, he tentatively moves his fingers from her back and threads them through her hair. He's never done this before, never been this close, not like this, and it feels smooth and soft against his skin and it makes his heart thump a little faster. Is that supposed to happen?

"That was brilliant," he murmurs, stroking shapes along her scalp. "I… I can't even describe it. And your voice, your _voice_, man alive, you should be talking all the bloody time with a voice like that. Well, not right now, of course, but when we get there. Have to do that first. Small steps. Can't be jumping all over the place."

She shakes with a silent laugh and pulls away. His palm slides down her cheek, and the thought to keep it there briefly touches his mind, but he ignores it.

"You know, I honestly wasn't sure if this was going to work," he admits, folding his hands in his lap. "My ideas are… well, not many of them turn out that well, as you might have noticed. But just look at you, humming already! I know you're quick, but wow, that was just—just absolutely tremendous. And we can try as much as you want, all right? Just let me know. We can even try during lunch. I can't promise phenomenal humming on my part, though."

Chell nods, and with an animated smile, she presses a fist to her heart, her other hand reaching out to rest on top of his, squeezing tightly. Her mouth thins a little, and she lets out a light sigh, shutting her eyes letting her expression smooth out in what looks like appreciation.

"Is that a thank you?" he asks, uncertain.

Another nod.

"No, no, none of that." Wheatley shifts one hand and enfolds it around hers, returning the pressure. It's warm and soft and it makes his stomach perform strange flips. "I wanted to do this," he says. "Friends do this sort of thing. They do, right? And believe me, I… I want to be a friend."

Chell licks her lip, but her smile widens, acknowledging.

Moments tick in double cadence with the metronome, and he finds himself inexplicably drawn to her, staring keenly at the slope of her brow, the smallness of nose, the angles of her jaws, the shape of her face, and his chest fills with… with what? What _is_ this? He doesn't understand; he's never felt this before, not even as a core, and the drumming between his ribs flutters erratically with the taste of apprehension on his tongue. Do all humans feel this? Does she?

He opens his mouth and starts to speak. He needs to ask, to know, to _understand_—but he's stopped short by a tug on his sleeve. It's Chell, and she grins at him expectantly, pointing toward the metronome, gesticulating her unspoken question.

Wheatley shoves his concerns into the back of his skull. Now isn't the place or the time. They can wait.

"Yes, of course," he says, and draws in another breath to settle his nerves. "Let's have another go."

* * *

><p>The air is sharpened ice and the wind feels like fangs dragging across his skin.<p>

He slowly plods his way back to the music shop, hands stuffed deep in his pockets to keep them from growing numb. Wheatley's blue coat is buttoned to the collar in hopes of fighting out the cold. While it does a relatively better job than simple flannel shirts, it does little to prevent the eventual chill that creeps and settles into the marrow of his bones. He's even made sure to bring warmer clothes this time, too, and even an extra pair of socks crammed around his feet. Other people wandering the streets give him strange looks as walks past, but he ignores them.

Bloody weather. At least his ears are warm.

Wheatley can see the little metronome ticking in the window as he approaches the shop, and he lets out an exhale of relief, a burst of pallid smoke. He really doesn't like trying to find things in this place. Everything seems like a maze. Not that Aperture wasn't a maze in its own right—but still. At least he knew his way around there.

The bell chimes merrily behind him, and a rush of warm air encompasses him and tugs him inside. Shivering, Wheatley stands there on the welcome mat for a few moments, reveling in the sheer presence of heat. Freezing to death is definitely not on his list of things to do today. Or any day, really.

"Ah, so it's you. Afternoon. Good to see you're here at a respectable hour this time." Thomas Key waves a flippant salutation from his place at the front desk. His hair, thin and wispy grey, is tied into a curly tail at the bottom of his neckline, resting limply over the back of his brown blazer.

Wheatley shakes the numbness from his fingers and adjusts his coat. "I can't get over how bloody _cold_ it is out there."

"Well, it is the tail end of autumn. To be expected, really."

"I don't like it at all." Wheatley shudders, now rubbing his cheeks to ward off the sharp tingling sensation. "Wish it was warm."

"I'm not fond of the cold, either. When you get to be my age, everything feels cold. Weather like this doesn't help." Thomas beckons him over with a jerk of his head. "Going to stand in the door all day, or are you going to come inside?"

Wheatley does as he's told and shuffles forward. "Sorry. Still recovering and all."

Thomas is stooping over a spread of papers across the desk. His small, circular spectacles are pressed close to his hazel eyes, and his thick fingers are flipping through the various stacks. "You know, boy, I never did get your name."

"Oh. Well, it's Wheatley."

"Is it? British, I assume?"

Wheatley's not really sure. He supposes it might be. He can't remember where his name comes from. All he knows is that he's been called Wheatley, just Wheatley, and nothing else. He's not really good with the etymologies of names, anyhow. His primary purpose (that he can recall) had been caring for test subjects. He can memorize names without a problem, but he hasn't got a clue about their roots and meanings. He simply shrugs in reply.

"What part of Britain are you from?"

He hadn't been expecting that. "Uh, well… you know. Around. You've probably never heard of the place." Wheatley clears his throat and tries not to look so nervous, fumbling through his thoughts for a sturdier answer. He knows he can't tell the truth. That would surely spell disaster, risking both him and Chell being slammed back into Aperture's labyrinthine chambers. A shudder climbs through his bones; he can't imagine facing GLaDOS again.

Thomas looks up, his bushy eyebrows arching skeptically. "I've been around Britain. Traveled the area for a year or two, in fact. I probably _have_ heard of the place. Your accent is English. Isn't it?"

Wheatley sighs. He wishes he were better at lying. Possibly the one thing he'd been better at as a personality core. "All right, all right, I don't… really know." He knots his fingers together as he leans against the side of the desk, deciding that staring at his scuffed shoes is a much better plan of action than facing the strange old man and his prying eyes. "I'm from around here, though. The general area, I mean. I think I might have been somewhere else before, but I can't remember."

"Can't remember? Well, that might explain a few things." Thomas pauses in his paperwork and lifts a wrinkled hand to scratch behind his ear. "I always run into the smart ones."

"I'm going to assume that wasn't a compliment." Wheatley lifts his knit cap to run his fingers through his static-struck hair, and then pulls it further down over his pinked ears. "You're a mean one, aren't you?"

"If I were… _mean_, as you put it, I wouldn't have given you that metronome." Thomas licks his thumb and turns another few pages. "Speaking of which, we still have an arrangement to discuss, dear boy."

Wheatley's stomach sinks a little. "Yes, about that—what exactly are you talking about? Because I haven't the slightest idea."

Thomas pulls a few of the sheets out of the pile, examines them for a moment, and then creates another stack. "You owe me. You owe me seventy-five dollars and ninety-five cents, to be precise, not including tax. Tell me, Wheatley, are you currently employed?"

"No, I'm not. I used to be, though." And then he wants to hit himself because he can't mention anything about Aperture. _What is his bloody problem_.

"What profession, if I may ask?"

Wheatley's thoughts are scrambling and he struggles to come up with a plausible answer. "I was… I took care hu—_people_. I took care of people. Other people. You know, making sure they're all right, that they have food and water, and turning them about every once in a while so they don't get sore while in sta—while _sleeping_. Sleeping. Right, that's what I meant to say, sorry."

Thomas chuckles. "You must be a serious case."

Wheatley glares at him, feeling slightly flustered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you live with someone else?" The clerk brushes a piece of lint off his blazer and plucks out a few more pages, his voice cool and noncommittal, promptly ignoring the question.

Wheatley raises an eyebrow, unsure what that has to do with anything. "I live with a lady," he says. "She's back at our flat. Or she might be out right now, actually. Why?"

"Ah, yes, that would explain it then." Thomas nods quietly himself and walks away from the desk, bunches of papers in his hands. He approaches the shelf that stretches along the wall just behind the counter, and runs a hand along the folders and books and binders filled to the brim with pages and pages of white. "You should have come here with her. It would have been much easier. Amnesiacs aren't always aware of their condition. It all depends on the amount of damage to the brain."

"Wait, wait, wait, hang on. You—you seriously think I have brain damage?"

Thomas shrugs. "Seems like retrograde," he remarks, pulling down a particular binder. "Much too cognizant for anterograde. You wouldn't have remembered me if it were that."

Wheatley can't resist the rattling in his chest any longer and succumbs to a fit of raucous laughter. The muscles in his stomach spasm and he leans his head against the desk, clutching at his sides. "I—I can't believe you th—oh, god, I can't _breathe_—s-she would—this is just—_ridiculous_—" And his words trail off into incoherent jumbles of syllables and sharp inhales, his lungs too bereft of oxygen for proper speech.

Thomas stares blankly. "I don't want to know what caused that."

Sucking in deep breaths to quell the ache in his lungs, Wheatley pulls off his glasses and dabs the wetness from his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. He doesn't think he's ever laughed this hard. It's oddly refreshing. "Oh, that was brilliant," he says, drawing another breath. "I can't wait to see her face. She's not going to _believe_ this. Amnesia… oh, man alive."

And it's then, as he continues to rub the tears away, that a sobering thought hits him full force. He remembers caring for test subjects back in Aperture. A select group had developed cases of amnesia after brain damage during testing. Some couldn't remember their identities, others remembered everything in the past and forgot everything new, and others couldn't recall specific occurrences.

Wheatley begins to consider the weight of Thomas's assumption about his mental condition as he collects himself and settles his glasses back onto his nose. Amnesia isn't such a bad excuse for his lack of human knowledge, is it? It seems plausible enough. A mute girl and an amnesiac living in the same house… well, it's as good of an excuse as any. There are worse to go with. How interesting.

"Finished, have you?" Thomas leafs through the pages of the binder in his wrinkled hands, searching intently for something.

Curiosity bubbles up within him, and Wheatley finds himself slinking toward him and peering down over the little man's hunched shoulders. "Uh, what're you doing?" he asks.

Thomas purses his lips, snapping open the rings and placing the papers inside one at a time. "Putting away new copies of sheet music. Just got them this morning."

"So _that's_ what it looks like. I thought I was just mad, seeing it my head like I did before." Wheatley furrows his brow, squinting at the lines and dots of black ink through his lenses. "Some of it looks a bit familiar. Could you teach me to read that? I feel like I know it, but it feels… off. I'm not sure how to explain it."

Thomas purses his lips, shuts the binder with a _thop_, and shoves it back into its space on the shelf. "It's possible. That sheet music was for a trumpet, however."

"Oh. Well, could you show me the set for the piano then? Maybe? If you wanted. I mean, you don't have to. You did give me that metronome after all, and it's not that I'm not grateful or anything, because I am, I really am, it's brilliant, but I feel… I feel like I should know this. Somehow."

The clerk takes a step backward, his hazel eyes sweeping up and down Wheatley's lanky frame as if appraising his worth. "How good are you at lifting things?"

Wheatley twists his mouth into a frown. "I know you're better at avoiding questions."

"Answer mine," says Thomas, tapping a shiny black dress shoe, "and we'll see about answering yours. I hold the cards here, boy."

"Well… I'm all right at lifting, I suppose." Humans are good at lifting things, right? He takes a look at his arms through the coat and flannel, gauging his strength. "I mean, I've never really lifted much. Small things here and there. I moved the sofa around the den once. Wasn't too hard."

"I'll tell you what, Wheatley. I'm an old man. And as much as I don't want to admit it, I'm not getting any younger. This shop is my pride and joy, but it's getting hard to run by myself." Thomas cracks his knuckles and then stuffs his hands into the pockets of his blazer, releasing a weary sigh. "I need a strong back to take care of the instruments, carry in new shipments, and move things around. I'm willing to offer you a job here. It'll help the both of us out. It'll pay off your metronome in the first week, and you'll have plenty of time to learn the ropes of music, if that's what you want. In turn, I get an employee to make sure this place stays in good condition. You're welcome to make any decision you like, but keep in mind that you'll still have to obtain the money for the metronome if you decline."

Wheatley considers it. A job? Well, it's not at Aperture, so that's a definite plus. And he'll get paid! He's never made money before. When he had been a core, his only form of pay had been regular maintenance to ensure he was working as intended. And better yet, he'll get to keep the metronome, and even get some experience with responsibilities and music. Chell will be pleased!

"What'll I have to do?" he asks, not bothering to hide his interest.

"Simple things," says Thomas, offering a shrug. "Organizing music on the shelves here, oiling instruments, carrying and lifting things I'm too old to carry. Manual labor for the most part. I'll be overseeing you and dealing with customers, so I'll have plenty for you to do."

Wheatley feels anticipation tighten in his chest. "And if I agree to this, you'll show me how to read music?"

Thomas smirks. "Considering you can remember it."


	6. The Tug

Chell remembers the last two times she was truly happy. It had been the first two times she'd ever seen the daylight sky.

The first is torment. There's an explosion, a burst of neurotoxin and fire and metal and unstoppable velocity and choking pain, and her body flies. The portal gun rips away from her fingers and she's thrust into the world outside, falling, falling, the blue above so clear and vibrant and alive. The sun is shining, radiant and bright, so incredibly bright, and she's nearly blinded, and shocks of white bloom beneath her eyelids. The ground rushes up to meet her, rising, rising, vertigo splitting her stomach, and as the collision cracks its way in, she slips into a womb of darkness and shock. The last she hears is a deep, mechanical drone before her brain shuts her body down.

The second is freedom. The hum of machinery rumbles in her bones as the lift rockets to the surface, passing layers upon layers of subterranean labyrinths, beyond the turrets and the pipes and the graffiti and the fear, beyond all the portals and the tests and the chambers, and then everything shudders to a halt. There's a door, a metal door, old and rusted from disuse, and it swings open and she can suddenly see light, _real light_, and she stumbles out into a sweeping field of azure and gold, breathing fresh air, not recycled air, _the real thing_, and she collapses to her knees and digs her fingers into the ground and she begins to cry.

The sky is all around her, dizzying, cool and real and dotted with white wisps of cirrus and thick hides of cumulus clouds, and it feels like she can just reach out and touch it all with her tongue. Everything blurs as the crescents of her eyes dampen with tears; she can't believe it, she has soil in her fingernails and she's outside with the wind on her arms and all of it is so beautiful, so very beautiful, and she won't give this up, not ever, not for anything. A charred weighted companion cube crashes onto the slab of concrete behind her, and she clenches her fists in the dirt, tiny rocks puncturing her palms, smiling like she never has before. She's alive, still alive, breathing and crying and so very much alive, with the sky above her and the sun in her hair, and she knows, she _knows_, she's finally won.

* * *

><p>Chell is bundled in a long, thick grey coat that brushes her calves with every step, her office paperwork resting safely a small handbag draped over her shoulder. She's paused on the concrete sidewalk, her breath a sputtering column of smoke from her lips, and her eyes are raised reverently to the sky. It's no less beautiful than it was those two days. It's no less wonderful or awe-inspiring, no less vivid or blue; no less perfect. But this time, it's not the sky that's made her happy.<p>

It's him.

She thinks it's because she's never had another person treat her this way. No one's ever wanted to help her without wanting something in return. No one's ever devoted this much thought and time and effort into trying to solve one of her problems without ulterior motives. No one's ever looked to her as an equal without patronizing or condescending undertones. And yet he's seen into her somehow, though all the silence and the gestures and the mental walls and the defense mechanisms, and he's tried to reach in and pull her out.

Friends help each other. That's what friends do. Isn't it? She's not entirely sure; she's never had a friend before, not that she can remember. The companion cube is a sort of friend, she supposes, but despite GLaDOS implying its sentience, it can't speak or move or interact. It can't offer all the tangible and emotional comforts of companionship that another human being can.

And another human being wants to be her friend. _Wheatley_ wants to be her friend. And the more she thinks about it, the more content she feels, and she doesn't know why because he didn't use to be a human; he used to be an AI of Aperture Laboratories, a personality core, a personality core that had spiraled into corruption and madness upon assuming GLaDOS's chassis, a personality core that had tried to _kill_ her.

She knows she shouldn't trust him. Her self-preservation instincts have told her that time and time again. Befriending someone who's tried to end your life is not a good choice to make. Events have a tendency to repeat themselves, and she's learned this many times over through GLaDOS's murderous, exemplary behavior.

But in spite of everything, she finds herself ignoring the rational parts of her brain. He's the same rambling Wheatley before the chassis, but he seems… different. Vulnerable. Free. He's no longer held back by the constraints of his internal programming, no longer dictated by the billions of lines of code and the constructs that had once framed his consciousness, finally able deviate from his intended purpose without worry of repercussion; liberated completely from Aperture's constricting influence.

Can being mapped to a human body have changed him so greatly? Chell doesn't know. She wants to think so. She likes the idea of a friend. Having someone to trust is a warm, welcome feeling, and she's had so few of those in her life that she doesn't want to let this one go. She doesn't want to think of betrayal or death or the consequences of putting her trust into someone else other than herself. She wants to feel safe. She wants to feel _happy_. Is that so bad?

Chell finally manages to tear her eyes away from the sky. She tugs on her small black gloves, adjusting them so they fit a touch snugger, and then she cups her hands against her face, breathing hot air between them to warm her numbed cheeks. Ashen smoke curls from the gaps between her fingers, quickly dissipating into nothing as she pulls away. Gathering her thoughts, she crosses the street at the flicker of a red light with a small crowd of people and does her best to push all of the negatives aside for later. She'll be home soon, and she doesn't want to be bogged down or distracted. She'd promised Wheatley the other day that she would show him how to cook, and after this morning's events, she's decided that now is as good a time as ever. Besides, she wants to show him how much she appreciates what he's done with a lesson or two of her own.

She's moving smoothly down the rows of shops toward the direction of their flat, teeth chewing at her lower lip, when she hears a familiar voice shout over the low hum of traffic.

"Oi! Oi, slow down, wait for—no, no, not _you_, wasn't talking to you, meant the girl—hey, wait a minute!"

Chell smiles inwardly and slows her pace, eventually stopping by the window of a bakery to allow the rest of the crowd to pass her by. She can hear Wheatley's scrambling footsteps as he sprints down the street behind her, and as she turns around, she sees him in his thick coat and knit hat above the heads of other people, scruffy cheeks flushed, his breath bursting into clouds. His running is rather awkward with his lanky limbs, and he comes to an ungraceful halt beside her (almost toppling over, but she's sure he won't admit it), his chest heaving with sharp, jagged inhales.

"You, you are _bloody_ hard to catch, lady," says Wheatley, pulling off his hat to dab at the sweat along his temples. Static forces his hair into odd angles, and he runs a quick hand through it before taking another deep breath and pulling the cap back on. "Glad I caught you, though, and I've got some fantastic news. You'll love this! Or, well, at least I hope you will. There's actually a very real possibility you might not, but let's just say you will because I think it's a brilliant idea and I really, really don't want to go back and tell him no. Between you and me, he's a bit weird. So, anyway, just pretend you love it, even if you don't, and everything'll be fine." Wheatley roots around his coat pockets, pulls out a folded, slightly wrinkled piece of paper, and then promptly shoves it under her nose.

Chell raises an eyebrow, but she takes it and gingerly unfolds the body. She starts to read over the typed paragraphs when she realizes that this is an application. A _job_ application, to be precise. Looking up at him, she points to the page and shrugs her shoulders with widened eyes, expressing bewilderment.

Wheatley palms his forehead. "Right, right, I suppose I ought to explain. Well, remember when I told you about the piano and the metronome the other day? I, uh, more or less made a bit of a deal to get the metronome, and, turns out, I need to fulfill my end of the bargain at some point. Shocking, I know, that's what I thought. Oh, don't look at me like that, it wasn't anything awful, I promise. I'm just going to work there at the store to pay it all off, and he said once that's all done and if I like it there, I can stay and I'll actually get paid. With the both of us working, that means we'll have more than enough pennies for everything we could ever want." He breaks into a wide grin, seeming very proud of himself. "Isn't that brilliant? I can help now! No more sitting at home all day for little Wheatley. Nope, not anymore. I've got a job, and I get to go out and make pennies like everyone else, starting at nine tomorrow morning. Well, actually, I suppose I'd start making them sometime next week, since he said the first would be for paying off the metronome, but… Oh, whatever, you get the bloody idea."

Chell is sorely tempted to somehow let him know that a better term would be _money_, but she can only refold the application and return his contagious smile. She gazes at him approvingly, a swell of pride fluttering behind her breastbone, and she notes the thickened stubble along his jaws and the slope of his nose, the lively blue of his eyes behind his glasses, the way bits of his unruly hair that stick out at all directions from under his hat, and the endearing way that his excitement seems to have him all aglow. Biting her lip, she glances at the paper in her hands, then up at him, back to her hands, and she can't help but feel a strange _tug_. (That's how he had described it, right? A tug? Something you just had to see, how to get closer to—) And she starts to wonder if it's the cold, since the cold is known to do funny things when you're out in it for too long. But it can't be; she's been outside for only ten minutes. What is it, then?

"You all right?" he asks, curiously tilting his head to the side. "You're just… standing there. And not smiling anymore. Look, I know I told you to pretend you loved it even if you didn't, but just ignore that, you really _can_ tell me if you didn't, I won't mind. I'll just, you know, go back and tell him I'll have to find another way to pay him back or something, shouldn't be too hard. He's weird, but I'm sure after I apologize a few times he'll understand. Maybe. If I'm lucky."

She tucks the application into a fold of her coat, anxiety tingling along her nerves. The beating in her chest drums a little faster as she hesitantly steps forward, and she soon finds herself with her face buried into the soft material of his coat, her arms curled securely about his waist, squeezing tight.

"I—_oh_. Well, then. You've… yes, you've got quite a nice grip there. Just like old times, right? But you can—ah, you can tone it down a bit, if you don't mind, since neither one of us is in any direct danger of falling into a deadly pit." One of his hands tentatively touches the small of her back, as if he's unsure how to react. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, the last time this happened, I was a bloody awful mess, and that was… well, that was when I first got put in this body. Not a good memory at all. For either of us, really."

Chell only smiles and hugs a bit tighter, breathing in the musky scent of his clothes. She wants more than anything to assure him that she's okay. In fact, she's certain she's more okay now in this moment than she has been the rest of her life. She has her freedom, the one thing she's coveted for so long; she's happy and proud, emotions that were once so far out of reach; and now, she has a friend, a good friend, someone she feels like she can count on, someone that worries about her wellbeing and someone that goes to great lengths to lend a hand, and it happens to be this gangling, bespectacled AI-turned-man with clumsy steps and a warm grin.

"Right, or you could just grip even tighter. That works, too." Wheatley winces, but his hand is now resting comfortably along the bend of her spine. "Losing ability to breathe, very slowly, just thought you should know. Not that it's important to breathe or anything, just giving you a heads up in case I happen to pass out or… or die or something. And let me tell you, you _can_ die from lack of air. I know that might come as a surprise, but believe me, it's very true, and it's not a pretty sight at all, not in the slightest."

She finally gives in and loosens her arms with a silent chuckle, pulling herself back just enough to allow room for respiration. Chell looks up and shows him that she really is smiling, that she really is happy, hoping to assuage his concerns, but she feels herself pause because she realizes just how _close_ she is. She can see the starts of the worry lines along his forehead, the varying shades of brown in the tufts of his hair that poke out from beneath his hat, the flushed color of his cheeks, the scruff lining his angular jaws, and even the places where his lips are starting to become chapped from the chill.

Wheatley seems lost for words. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but then promptly closes it, his adam's apple bobbing in a hard swallow. His hand increases the pressure along her back, pulling her a little closer, and then she feels the other shift somewhere beside him, caught in the corner of her eye, and then there's a thumb on her cheek, sketching a light line from her temple down along her jawbone.

"You look a bit cold," he says at last, his mouth pressed into a perceptive smile. "And I'd be the one to know. I haven't got any gloves on, so I can feel it."

Chell might be cold, but right now, she feels unnaturally warm. Heat seems to climb from the palm of his hand up the curve of her spinal column and into the vertebrae, planting warmth in the space behind her breastbone.

"What do you say we go home?" he asks. "Don't know about you, but I could really go for some hot tea right about now. Or anything hot, really. Hot is very welcome at this point."

Slowly, she manages a nod. What on earth's gotten into her?

Wheatley brushes a lock of dark hair away from her eyes, and after a moment of silence, he chuckles awkwardly and pulls away. Her arms drop to her sides on their own accord, limp and shaking.

He gestures down the sidewalk with a slight motion of his head. "So, shall we press on?"

The walk home is oddly quiet. Wheatley keeps pace beside her as they plod down the streets and past the shops, the drone of chatter and traffic humming in her ears. Every now and then, she'll feel Wheatley's hand accidentally brush against her arm as they weave between the crowds, and she'll feel a shiver dance through her bones. When they wait at the curbs for the lights to turn, she'll notice him grinning or adjusting his glasses or tugging down his cap to ensure his ears are plenty toasty, and she'll feel a prickle of _something_ swell and flop about in her stomach. She's not sure why she's suddenly so susceptible to these little things (although she has a hunch: stupid cold weather!), but she wishes it would stop, and preferably soon.

The flat draws close, and when the door finally closes behind her, she releases a deep, shuddering sigh. Chell's never been so relieved to be out of the cold.

Wheatley seems to share the sentiment. He quickly sheds his coat, shoes, and hat, his disheveled hair a world of static, and he immediately heads for the heater by the sofa, shoving his hands as close as possible to absorb every bit of warm air. He sits on his haunches and makes a soft groaning noise in his throat, his shoulders trembling from the drastic temperature change.

Chell resists a smirk and picks up his discarded items, hanging them at their proper place on the wall rack by the door. She pulls off her gloves, tucks them safely away in her coat's breast pocket, and then shuffles off the extra layers and hangs them there, too, along with her handbag. Rolling up her white cotton sleeves and shaking the numbness from her hands, she makes for the kitchen. She thinks that tea sounds like a great way to begin preparations for the night's dinner. It might chase away the chill that's settled into her, and perhaps even that odd tug.

Chell fetches the black teakettle from the stove and holds it under the pouring tap. After she places it back on the burner and turns up the heat, she flits through the cabinets, searching for the boxes of tea she had bought the other week. She spots them on the second shelf next to the cups, and she stretches on the tips of her toes to bring them down. She lifts the top of one, nudging the various colored packets about as she reads the labels, wondering what kind Wheatley would enjoy. Eventually, she decides on two packages of Earl Grey. He seemed to like it well enough the last time.

The kettle whistles, and Wheatley wanders into the room just as she's pulling down the mugs from the cabinet. Chell gives him a shy smile and holds out a teabag in her cupped palm.

"Oh, thank you," he says, taking it from her hand. "You're great, you know that?"

She sets the mugs on the countertop and plucks the teakettle off the stove with an oven mitt. Carefully, she pours in the steaming water into each one, savoring the rise of hot moisture as it curls up to meet her skin. After she's satisfied that both have even amounts of water, she places the kettle back on the stove and switches off the burner. Nudging one of the mugs toward Wheatley, she drops in her teabag and lets it steep.

Wheatley follows suit, but he keeps his hands clasped tightly around the body of the mug, his thumb absently toying with the bag's string. "Ah, this feels wonderful," he murmurs contentedly, catching her eye. "You know, I really think I'm getting used to this. The whole human thing. There are so many good things you can feel, so many emotions and touches and _everything_, and it's… it's just tremendous. It really is."

Silence slowly enfolds them both. Wheatley licks his lower lip and flexes his fingers around his mug while Chell stirs her tea with the end of a spoon in hopes of encouraging it to steep a little faster. She tries to ignore the fact that he's standing next to her, but it proves to be rather hard. She can feel the heat from him, radiating outward, prickling gooseflesh along her exposed forearms.

"I don't make a very good one, do I?" he finally asks. Wheatley's brow is furrowed, his eyes downcast, staring blankly into the steam rising from his cup. "I mean, even with all this learning-how-to-human, I'm still Wheatley. Little old Wheatley, that moronic personality core from the facility that went mad and nearly destroyed everything. Wheatley, the now-human who's most like to burn something or… or fall down the stairs, or do something else disastrous and painful." The tendons in his throat stretch in his skin as he swallows. "But if it makes any sense at all, I'm… I'm glad. For this. And for you, and for all you've done for me even though you really didn't have to do any of it. And—and I really hope that getting this job will help. I know I don't make things easier, so… if I can help in any way, any way at all, just… just let me know. All right? All you have to do is ask, and I'll be there. I promise."

Chell glances up at him, puzzled as to why he's saying these things. She sees that he's frowning intently at the mug between his palms, and she worries a little. She's not sure what's bothering him, and although she has no vocal way of asking, she wants to help. Hesitantly, she reaches out and places a small hand on his arm, a touch of silent comfort; one of the few things she can offer.

Wheatley shakes his head as though he's just broken out of a trance. "Oh, sorry. I… I don't know where all that came from. That was a bit weird, wasn't it? Didn't mean to spring it on you like that, out of the blue and all, it just sort of… tumbled out." He looks down at her hand, and then at her, his eyes seeming strangely weary. A thin smile spreads across his lips and he runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm not very familiar with this ritual, to be honest. I know we've done it before, but is it supposed to be an introspective sort of thing? It certainly feels like it."

She shrugs her shoulders in reply, but she gives his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"Well, whatever it is, I think it's better this way. With you here. I don't think I'd like it very much alone." He picks up his mug with one hand and sips at the tea, and a soft noise of contentment rumbles somewhere in his chest. "Besides, the last time I tried to do it myself, I sort of burnt my hand on the teakettle. Not fun. Not fun at all. Just in case you were wondering."

Chell inwardly smiles and brings her tea to her lips. She takes a small, hesitant sip, and the liquid runs hot along her tongue, soothing the chill inside of her. She keeps her other hand hooked comfortably around his arm, not wanting to let go just yet.

Wheatley makes a pleased sigh and rolls his shoulders. "So! Did you want to do another lesson tonight with dinner? I have some more ideas for some songs we could hum. Only if you want to, though. Today's been pretty long, so I'd understand if you wanted to wait."

She shakes her head in reply and places her mug back on the counter. With an eager grin, she points toward the stovetop, and then nudges his side.

"Oh. _Oh_. We're trying that tonight?"

Chell nods, tugging gently on his arm.

Wheatley takes another thoughtful sip. "Well, as long as the burning is kept to a minimum, or as long as there's no burning at all, I suppose everything should be all right. I do like heat, but burning is a bit much. Oh, and I should probably wear those things you wore, shouldn't I? The hand things? Yeah, that's a good idea. The less burning the better."

Chell rolls her eyes at his reluctance and tugs on his arm again, trying to convince him to part with the counter. When he continues nursing his tea, she leans on her toes and snatches the glasses off his nose, taking a few steps backward to put herself out of his reach.

He squints down at her. "Okay, you didn't have to do that. I just wanted to finish this, that's all."

She waves them back and forth, a hand on her hip.

"Oh, all right, all right." Wheatley sets his cup beside hers and heaves a heavy sigh. "But I'm not promising any miracles!"


	7. The Defect

Wheatley has come to the conclusion that it takes a _lot_ of dexterity to cook.

He doesn't think he's much of a dexterous fellow. As a core, his management rail had done all of his dexterous work for him. Flitting about test subject compartments and back and forth across the facility without a care in the world, letting the rail guide him onward—nope, not much practice there. As a human, however, if he's left to his own devices, he sometimes has trouble standing on his own two feet. He won't kid himself; that can be rather awkward, and it definitely doesn't contribute to any natural agility.

So when he watches Chell multitasking about the kitchen, seamless and smooth and fast on her feet, he can only pause and admire her while she works. She seems to be synched with the internal timing of everything; she knows when to take a pan off the burner, when to put another on, when to add spice, when to add more heat, when to turn the meat to lock the flavor inside, and so much more. He can't even imagine remembering to do all of those things, especially not all at once. Perhaps when he still had the benefits of a highly advanced central processing unit to manage countless timeslices and process multitudes of thoughts at a better-than-efficient speed, but most definitely not now.

He's staring into space when Chell shoves a measuring cup into his hands, effectively breaking his reverie.

Startled, Wheatley gives it a curious look. "Um… what exactly am I supposed to do with this?"

Nudging the simmering pieces of meat in the frying pan with the end of a wooden spoon, she points to a thick recipe book far along the counter, its pages flipped open.

Somewhat confused, he draws up to the book and sets the cup down beside it. He presses a finger along the paragraphs of small text, squinting as he skims through the jumbles of words. To his surprise, numbers are listed there as well. Wheatley's never been a great reader, but he definitely knows numbers.

"Oh, so they're measurements," he says, noting the presence of units. "Which is this for?"

Chell holds up one finger.

"One? The first list? This one here?"

She nods, scooping a piece of meat into the spoon. He watches her as she takes a knife and gently carves into it, exposing the color inside. It doesn't seem meet her standards, however; she makes a huffing noise in her throat and slides it back into the pan, the oil retaliating with a hiss.

Wheatley turns his attention back to the book. "Well, let's see what we got here. Shouldn't be too hard." He leans in and peers at the text, trailing his thumb along the words. "Ah, here. Oh, wow, look at all of those. Half cup of water, three-quarters of milk, one and a forth of cream…" He glances nervously to the measuring cup. "Right. Well, seems simple enough. Units are right along the side there, all accounted for. Don't think any are missing. Oh, that would be bad, wouldn't it? Pretty sure they're all there, though. Don't hear about faulty measuring cups too often." He glances back up at Chell, fretfully pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We _do_ have some sort of container to put all this in, right?"

Chell looks over her shoulder as she continues to turn the meat. She nods in reply, but she's got that smirk creeping across her lips, the one that makes it seem like she's enjoying watching him become so flustered.

"Hey, don't look at me like that, it's not my fault," he says, folding his arms and lapsing into a scowl. "I'm out of my element here. Not that… well, not that I was ever really in it to begin with, but seriously now, that's just not nice. I didn't smirk at _you_ earlier, did I? No, no, I didn't. Was perfectly amiable, a right gentleman. Epitome of courtesy. I don't go about smirking at ladies trying to learn new things. Did it ever occur to you to do the same? Except with me instead, obviously. But I'll be honest, I'll be honest, other ladies might appreciate the gesture as well."

Chell lets out a long sigh and holds up a hand, signaling for him to wait. He watches her with interest as she carefully ladles each piece of meat out of the pan with her wooden spoon and drops them onto a plate. When she seems satisfied, she leaves the spoon, turns off the heat, and draws up to his side.

"Wait, wait, what are you, what are—I… oh."

Her hand is placed against the back of his, her palm resting along his knuckles. It's soft and warm and it makes his chest tighten, spiderwebbing thrill along his nerves. God, he keeps forgetting just how _good_ she feels. Gently, she guides his hand toward the measuring cup, pressing his fingers with her own as if urging him to pick it up.

He swallows, and he can feel the heat rise in his face. "You're going to show me?"

Nodding, she nudges her hip against his thigh, calm and coaxing.

"All right then," he says, inwardly savoring the sensation. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I can work with that."

Chell lightly punches his arm with her free hand.

"That wasn't sarcastic," he insists with a frown, finally taking the measuring cup. "I meant it. I really did."

She only smiles, her hand squeezing his in reply.

Wheatley quickly discovers that cooking is also very methodical. It's all about procedure. Dexterity is a nice bonus to be sure, but everything breaks down into a basic formula: a series of steps structured together by smaller components that are to be executed in a particular way in order to achieve a goal. To create something, certain items are required, and those items must then be prepared and mixed together in a certain manner to obtain the desired result. It's all very practical, very technical, and he can definitely understand why she's so good at it. It's exactly like solving a puzzle, but with more freedom and improvisation involved. It's absolutely fascinating.

He'll admit that he's never been that great at technical things. Hacking might have been his only strong suit (and even that's stretching it a bit). But in spite of his severe lack of expertise, he starts to think that he could get used to this. She guides him wordlessly, all through expression and body language and gesture, and simply _showing_ him is so much more: she frames his hands with her own, moves his arms with nudges of her elbows, and persuades his body to perform with an elegance he's sure has never existed before. It's… different. It's incredibly different. It reminds him of the metronome and of her threadbare voice, wonderful and soft, of the both of them humming for just an instant, together, nervous and fighting the tremors inside—

And he can't help but wonder if she feels all of this. Does it happen to her, too? The tingling along the spine with each little touch, the elation swelling between the lungs, the slight hitches in breath? Is this even normal?

Wheatley briefly considers the possibility of abnormalities as he lets her coax his hands into tipping a box of slender pasta over the edge of a pot of hot water. It's not that farfetched. He's not even sure who this body might have belonged to, no less its potential host of physical or mental conditions. He doesn't remember the majority of the procedure—most of it is metal and blinding lights and white and the view of a gurney and the high-pitched hum of something mechanical—but it would be just like Her to leave him in a defective body. Just like Her to put him in something like this as form of punishment. Just like Her.

His muscles tense at the thought.

Everything starts to seize up, and he's not sure what's happening. His fists clench, knuckles blanching white, and his breathing shudders into an uneven rhythm. His eyes slump closed and he can feel dread coiling inside of him, kissing the undersides of his ribs, and all he can think of is what if he really isn't normal, what if it's all some sort of defect, something _She_ did, something to torture him with—

And then he feels Chell's fingers tentatively brush the side of his face; soft, inquiring, gentle. He feels her ease her palm into cupping his jaw, thumb sketching a path along the coarse hairs, asking, and he finds himself flinching at the touch. The thoughts of GLaDOS are hastily ripped away and he's thrust back into reality, the steam from the pot fogging his glasses. He looks down to see Chell's eyes grow wide with alarm, and he can tell that she's taken aback.

"I—I'm sorry, you startled me there," he says, curling his fingers comfortingly around her wrist. "I… wasn't really expecting that. Didn't mean to frighten you, if I did. Sorry. My fault. Just caught in thought."

Chell bites at her lower lip, and she stretches up to touch his face again. The pads of her fingers brush through the thick stubble along his cheeks and jaws, slow and deliberate, as if she's committing the texture to memory. It's strange, but not unpleasant.

Wheatley offers a faint smile. "It is getting a bit long, isn't it? Kind of scratchy. Feels weird. You're nice and smooth, though." He lets go of her wrist to run a thumb quickly along her chin to make his point, the skin pleasantly warm beneath. "Feels much better, I think."

A grin spreads across her lips, the kind that means that she has an idea, but she only stands there, continuing to move her hand along the roughness on his jaws, the heat from the stove giving her skin a flushed sheen.

"Now what are you on about?" he asks. He's glancing back and forth to watch the movements of her fingers, half ready for a trap. "I know that look. It's one of those devilish, plotting looks. Oh, don't think I'm not onto you, lady, because I am. Can't get past Wheatley. I'm ready for anything, ready for—oh, _enough_ with the bloody glasses already! You're making this very difficult, you know. How am I supposed to learn any of this if I can't see properly?"

But Chell isn't listening. It's fuzzy, but he can see her peering into the pasta pot, steam curling the stray locks of her hair, his glasses proudly folded onto the collar of her white shirt. After a moment or two, she seems satisfied that everything is progressing according to plan, and she turns her attention back to him. Looking up, she arches her eyebrows with a rather satisfied expression that seems to say, _Well, what are you going to do about it?_

Wheatley threads his fingers through his hair and releases a sigh. "All right, all right. Can I have them back? Please? I won't drop anything. Promise. Promise I definitely won't drop anything. And I was doing great. I was, wasn't I? At least I thought I was. So if I could just… please get those back, that'd be amazing. But at your leisure, of course, since you seem pretty intent on constantly snatching them. Well, I suppose it's not really all that constant since you've only done it twice, but still. My point remains."

He feels her take his hand. It's hesitant at first, hovering along the side, barely touching, but then she grips around half of his palm (she's so _tiny_) and hooks around his last two fingers, pulling his arm toward her. He can feel the dampness on her skin as she curls his fingers into a fist, and then he can feel the heat of her body and the gentle cadence of the thrum in her chest when she presses it flush against her heart.

Moments of silence pass, and Wheatley swallows thickly as he stares down at her through the blur, unsure of what he should do. That's usually her sign for appreciation or gratitude, but she's never done anything like it with his hand before. He feels the drumming inside of him begin to escalate, and it makes his breath grow short, sucking shallow inhales of steam into his lungs. He wishes he knew what this was; it's driving him mad, euphoria trickling down his nerves and pooling behind his breastbone, swelling, swelling, and he's lost and he doesn't know what to do and he wishes more than ever that she could talk. If anyone would know what this feeling is, even if it's a defect or an abnormality or something else that's just not right, it would be her. She'd have to. She's the cleverest person he knows.

Finally, manages to dredge up a response from the dregs of his throat. "Not to… not to ruin this or anything," he says, his voice a touch hoarse, "whatever it is—because it's quite lovely, let me assure you—but I'm… I'm honestly not sure what you're trying to get across here. Maybe if I could have a hint, or if you could write it down, or, or something, anything…"

But then the moment shatters, and Chell is drawn back to the stove to tend to the pasta, his hand forgotten and limp at his side. He stands there, speechless, his spine victim to crawling shivers, and he can't help but watch her as she nods affirmatively to herself, biting again at her lower lip. What is wrong with him? Why is this body reacting this way? He doesn't even know what the bloody hell he's reacting _to_!

He's wrenched out of his thoughts by a sudden tug on his shirt. Chell is standing close, gesturing to the pot of pasta, her hands half-curled and moving as though she's going to pick it up.

"Oh. Oh, sorry. I did it again, didn't I? Blanked out. That can't be good. I must be getting tired or something." Wheatley shakes his head and rubs his eyes before grabbing a pair of oven mitts. With a light grunt, he picks up the pot by its handles. "All right, just say where."

Chell places her hand about the bend of his arm and leads him toward the sink where a metal colander sits over the drain. She guides him forward, her finger pointing as she nudges him with a gentle shove of her hip. Wheatley takes the hint and rests his knees against the lower cabinets, channeling his strength into hauling the pot over the lip of the sink.

"Watch it, _watch it_, don't want to burn you, hands out of the way—okay, okay, there, good." He grits his teeth and pours the pasta into the colander, a torrent of steam bursting forth and unfurling upward to engulf him. Taking a breath, he glances to her, the pot still gripped in his hands, and he manages a weak grin. "Not going to lie, I was a bit worried there for a second. Almost thought you weren't going to move."

He thinks he can see her smile. The steam is still curling around his ears and through his hair and his sight is still blurry, but he thinks she is, and then she's suddenly reaching up toward his face, holding something, and then everything is a world of crystal as she slides his glasses back onto his nose, taking care to angle the ends so they don't poke his ears. Her eyes are cool and calm, slate blue, and she gazes up at him with what he thinks is fondness.

"Thank you," he says, but it's low and quiet; a purr in his chest. He can't make it any louder.

Chell moves her lips, her tongue twisting in her mouth, and her brow furrows with what looks like concentration. When nothing happens, she makes a face in displeasure, but it fades when she refocuses on him and instead starts to worry at her lower lip. And then, after a moment of prickling silence, he hears the wispy thrum of her voice.

"… Mmmm." It's just as soft as before, just as shaky and coy, but it's no less wonderful or amazing; still able to lance into his heart and send adrenaline pushing through every chamber, and he feels his grip on the pot handles begin to slacken.

"Oh, that's _brilliant_," Wheatley breathes, unable to resist the delight that's clambering through him. It shuffles up his vertebrae and down his ribs and he can feel the tingling skip across his toes. He finds himself grinning, inexplicably content. Just the _sound_ of her is enough to make him feel like he's on top of the world! "Well done, mate. You're a bloody natural. And I'll bet you're a great singer, huh? Well, not right this moment obviously, but you will be, I know it. You've got that look about you. Oh, it'll be great, and just imagine—"

And then his grip falters and he yelps because the pot is tumbling to the floor with a resounding crash and _damn_ he is just not with it today.

Wheatley scrambles to scoop it into his arms again, and just as he's leaning up, he comes face to face with Chell. He can see the white of her teeth in her smile; she's not even bothering to hide her amusement.

"Um—sorry about that, really, got a bit carried away," he manages, straightening his back. He tries to ignore the warmth rising in his face, but it doesn't work. "I was just, you know, happy, and I know I promised I wouldn't drop anything, but it wasn't all that important, was it? Nothing was in it. Already got the noodles out. They're safe in the, uh… the metal thing there. The colander. That is what it's called, right? But they're safe and I didn't drop them. Just this. So everything's all right."

Chell's shoulders shake in a silent laugh. Shaking her head, she tugs on the hem of his shirt, signaling for him to follow her. He feels a bit of relief when she doesn't make him leave the kitchen. Instead, she gestures for him to set down the pot, and when he complies, she tugs off the oven mitts and places them by the open book of recipes.

"We're going to finish?" he asks, glancing hopefully to the rest of the ingredients spread across the countertop.

She nods, but motions as though she's going to drop something. After the dramatic posturing of her allowing an invisible container crash to the floor, she shakes a chiding finger at him, an eyebrow arched.

Wheatley grins bashfully. "Right. Finish, but less dropping. Got it. Noted. Will do."

Preparing the rest of the meal goes smoothly, to his surprise. Chell makes sure he no longer has access to large pots, and she leads his hands in stirring in the cream, milk, spices, and the amalgam of vegetables she had chosen earlier. Mixing the newly made cream sauce with the meat and pasta all together in a large bowl is his favorite part, though. The colors are so bright and vivid, and all of it smells absolutely _divine_.

"So, it's called linguine?" Wheatley is currently sparring with his fork. The noodles keep sliding off, along with the rest of everything else, and it's starting to become really irritating.

Chell nods, twirling the pasta around before pulling it up on her own fork and popping it into her mouth.

Wheatley peers at her through his glasses, fascinated. "How do you _do_ that? This is ridiculous. I do not like these utensils at all. Hands seem so much easier. It's messier, but at least you can eat the bloody stuff."

Letting out a quiet sigh, she takes his hand in hers and shows him how to twist the noodles around the thin tines of the fork. She then scoops into the vegetables, and holds it up with a nonchalant shrug, as if to say, _There, easy_.

"Oh. Well, thanks." He brings it carefully to his mouth, his other hand cupped beneath, and begins to eat. It has an incredibly pleasant taste, he decides, slurping up a noodle. The shredded cheese on top really hits the spot. He can't believe he actually helped make this! Who would've thought?

Glancing to Chell, he twirls the pasta around his fork again. He wants to thank her somehow, but there's only so many times one can say thank you without sounding like a broken record. He devours another mouthful, chewing on a piece of chicken, and wonders what he can do. He's not versed in every human ritual just yet, so perhaps there's one that's specific to expressing gratitude? He can't ask her that, though. That wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?

And then a thought strikes him. Thomas Key is a knowledgeable old bloke. He might know!

He smiles complacently into his fork, and when Chell gives him a baffled look, he can only laugh.

Cleanup is quick and efficient, and the leftover pasta is stored in a small container on the center shelf in the fridge. After all the plates and silverware have been put away into their respective cabinets, Wheatley meanders out of the kitchen. Feeling oddly satisfied and eager for tomorrow's events, he makes his way toward the shower.

If he's honest, he's still not used to the idea of bathing. Water used to be a Very Bad Thing. When you're made entirely out of metal and wires and circuitry and countless other electronic components, you eventually learn to avoid things that make you malfunction or pose any kind of threat to your mechanical wellbeing. While bottomless pits are also very high on his list of Things One Must Avoid As a Personality Core, water is definitely the first. Shorting out is not an enjoyable experience, to say the least.

Upon sharing living quarters with Chell, learning that humans had to dunk themselves under torrents of water on a daily basis had come as a bit of a shock. After spending so long trying to stay away from bodies of water, he had been hesitant to plunge into it willy nilly. The initial encounter with the bath tub had been… interesting, but with some additional coaxing from Chell, he had managed to get himself squeaky clean without too much of a mess.

He's still somewhat adverse to the prospect, but he understands why it must be done. Smelly humans, indeed. Especially under the arms. Ugh. He won't be smelly if he can help it.

Wheatley hums contentedly as he lathers soap into his hair, increasing the pressure along his scalp. The water from the shower nozzle patters down his back and along his legs, curving a path across the white porcelain toward the drain. Although he doesn't always like getting into the shower, he has to admit, the feeling can be rather nice. The temperature of the water can be changed, too, and he loves that especially. Hot showers are _amazing_ after a cold day. Human inventions can be quite marvelous.

After he's satisfied that all the soap has washed away, he does another quick scrub with the washrag, leans close to the nozzle to rinse anything else, and then shuts off the water. He shoves the lavender curtain aside and gropes along the wall for the towel rack. When he recognizes the particular touch of fuzzy fabric on his fingers, he promptly grabs it and drapes it over his shoulders as he steps out of the shower.

"Ahh," he murmurs, blissful and at ease. "Nothing better. Nothing at all. Well, except for dinner. Maybe." After ruffling his hair with the burgundy-colored towel, he begins to methodically dry off the rest of his body.

The foggy mirror in front of the sink makes him take pause. Wheatley rubs away some of the moisture with a corner of his towel and peers at his reflection. It's blurry without his glasses, but he can still discern what he looks like. The brown mop of hair on his head is much darker from the water, and even a bit more unruly. His face is slightly gaunt, his shoulders and collar bone more pronounced. The muscles in his arms aren't prominent like the ends of his elbows, but they're still there, while his chest is a flat plane, little lines shaping along his ribcage. His hipbones jut out a bit, too, and a trail of coarse hair runs from his lower belly downward.

Wheatley settles the towel on one shoulder and drags a palm thoughtfully along his jaws. "Wish there was a way to get rid of this. Or at least most of it. Starting to itch." He then inwardly shudders at his subconscious choice of the word. _Note: never use it._

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door, and Wheatley is broken from his thoughts.

"Almost done," he calls. "I'll be out in a minute."

Another knock, more insistent.

"What? I said I'm almost done. Just have to get dressed. It'll only be a minute."

Another knock, even more insistent.

"Bloody hell, I don't even—hang on, hang on, let me at least get some pants or trousers or something before you barge in. It'll take two seconds, two seconds." He reaches for the set of pajamas on the sink counter and just manages to wriggle into the bottoms before the door opens.

Chell peeks in warily, her eyes darting about. When she catches his eye and realizes that he's semi-decent, she nudges the door open and moves inside.

Wheatley gives her a curious look, toweling off his hair a second time. "So what's this about? You're the one that was adamant about the privacy thing. And don't deny it, because you were, I remember it. How am I supposed to keep to that with you coming in on me when I've only got half my clothes on?"

But Chell seems to be ignoring him, because she's got his arm and she's pulling him toward the toilet. Closing the lid, she places her hands on his shoulders (it's kind of funny how she stands on her toes like that) and forces him to sit down. She looks him over, and then after hanging his towel comfortably around his neck, she nods to herself and kneels in front of the sink cabinet.

He's not really sure where she's going with this.

"So, what exactly's going on? You haven't even gestured anything. Unless you did actually gesture something and I missed it, and in that case I'm sorry and you should probably gesture it again, but I really don't think you did. Did you?"

Chell emerges from the cabinet with a metal cylindrical bottle and some sort of device with a thin handle topped with a flat, horizontal end. She stands in front of him with the two objects in tow, and he squints at them to get a clearer view.

"Oh, that is, that is—that is a _blade_. Several tiny blades, actually, but still a blade." Wheatley swallows uneasily and moves his back flush with porcelain. "Now, I'm going to be honest, going to be honest, blades didn't use to bother me much before, being a metal sphere and all. Not much harm to be done there. But now? Like this, all fleshy and with real skin? I'm… I'm not fond of them. At all. I'm actually very susceptible and very much opposed to them. I don't think I have to remind you what happened when I dropped that one near my foot in the kitchen. Gruesome. Blood everywhere. Well, not everywhere, but it was on the floor and on me there was a lot of pain, and that was just not a pleasant experience for anyone. Mostly me. So, seriously, if you could just, just… not have that anywhere near me, that'd be splendid. And appreciated. Greatly."

Chell heaves a sigh. Setting the bottle in his lap, she reaches out with her free hand and drags her fingers along the stubble on his face. Pulling it back, she then makes a smooth up-and-down motion with said blade.

Wheatley shakes his head. "I haven't the slightest idea what that means, and I don't think I want to. No, not with that thing involved. I'll be much happier without it."

The next thing he knows, his eyes are being closed with the help of Chell's fingers.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, I—"

And then one of them presses to his lips, silencing him. He looks up at her through one eye, panicked, and he sees the determination on her face, how her brow knits together and the thin line her mouth makes, and even though he has that flighty _oh-god-run_ sensation in his chest, seeing her look so firm and demanding smoothes out his nerves.

"A-all right, you win, I'll close my eyes." And he does so, shutting them tightly. He doesn't want to see this.

Chell draws away, and he hears the gurgling sound of the running tap. After a moment, it shuts off, silence except for her quick footsteps, and then he feels wet hands rubbing along his neck and jaws. It's a peculiar sensation, he thinks, but not unpleasant. The weight in his lap is soon lifted, followed shortly by a punctuated _pop_, and then a strange static-like noise fills his ears. Her hands return to his face, gentle and pressing, but this time with a cool substance that she lathers meticulously across his skin. It seems almost like soap, but lighter somehow, or perhaps thicker, and with a sharper smell.

Wheatley hears the sound of the tap again, and then he can feel the tug of her drying herself on the towel hanging from his neck. One hand settles on the top of his head, her fingers threading into his damp hair, and he feels a slight pressure suddenly dragging down his cheek. He can feel the hair resisting as it continues its trek down the slope of his jaw and along his throat, and then the pressure is gone.

Chell guides his hand to the line she had just made. His eyes open wide when the pad of his finger comes into contact with smooth skin, smooth skin where there had been thick stubble moments before!

"Right, okay, I take back what I said," he manages, mouth gaping in awe. "As long as it doesn't hurt, I'm all for this. Blade away."

She quivers with a laugh, and reaches forward to drag it down in another path along his face. Bit by bit, the whitish cream is wiped away by her deft movements, and his jaws are left feeling hairless and smooth. When she's finished, she takes the end of the towel and dabs it along his face, mopping up any of the leftover foam.

Wheatley presses his fingers along his cheeks after she pulls away, completely enthralled with the sensation. "This is incredible," he murmurs. "Why didn't you tell me about this before? Would have done it bloody ages ago. No worrying about all that scratchy stuff or anything, would've just had it all off, no trouble." Eagerly, he gets up from his seat and moves around Chell to get a look into the mirror. When he sees his reflection, he lets out a deep chuckle of approval. "Oh ho, check me out—looking pretty sharp! What do you think, huh? Do you like it? I know I do. This is _amazing_." He turns his face from side to side, admiring Chell's handiwork. "Oh, you did a wonderful job, mate. Seriously, absolutely grand. Don't know how I'm going to thank you for this."

She casually leans into the mirror beside him. Her reflection gazes back and smiles, wide and proud, a lock of her dark hair falling across her eyes. Wheatley glances down at her and reaches out in attempt brush it aside, but he meets the cool blue of her eyes and he finds himself lost for words, frozen, his hand stopping short by her cheek. The familiar thumping behind his breastbone quickens its pace, and he finds his lungs drawing shallow inhales again. His fingers touch the soft surface of her skin, the ends spreading across to cup her jaw, and he doesn't know what he's doing, what the hell _is_ this, and then he feels those trembles grip the base of his spine and a shudder wracks through him, shattering everything.

Wheatley swallows awkwardly and tucks the lock behind her ear before quickly pulling away. The more distance the better.

"Sorry," he mutters, offering a timid laugh as he hangs the towel in its proper place on the rack. "I… don't really know what came over me there. I must be a bit more tired than I thought. Should probably get to bed, I think. Sounds like a good idea. You ought to as well, you know. Long day tomorrow and all. Rest is important. Can't be staying up all hours, right?"

After grabbing his pajama top and bidding Chell a hasty goodnight, Wheatley makes for the solitude and safety of his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him with a hurried click, and as he sinks back against the surface of the old wood in the cool darkness, his damp palms splayed across the surface, he releases a deep, weary sigh.

This is just going to get worse, isn't it?


	8. The Memento

Chell remembers the first time she saw the moon.

It's a night of madness. A night of fear, of adrenaline, betrayal; a night of blackness and metal and pain, of explosions and fire and monsters.

_He's_ the monster.

She's lying still, her cheek pressed against the gunmetal tiles, and she can feel the floor shaking underneath her. The entire facility is starting to split apart at the seams. Pipes are cracking, heat is crawling through the walls, and the ceiling is collapsing plate by plate. Water pours down from above, soaking the little hairs on her bare arms and seeping into the material of her jumpsuit, and a deep chill sinks into the marrow of her bones. A dull throb has already rooted its way into the webbed network of her nerves, pulsing steadily, and she grits her teeth as she tries to move.

Everything hurts, and she's going to die.

Her eyes flicker ahead of her, catching a glimpse of white and black. The portal gun is there, just there, her only defense, and she reaches out for it with shivering fingers and grabs a hold. The grip is warm, familiar; the only comfort she's ever known in this hellish construct of science. She brings the device close against her chest, grasping for solace, and she huddles against the barrel.

A roar rumbles through the cold tiles beneath her body, deep in the belly of the labyrinth, and she can hear the sound of him yelling. It's panicked and afraid and angry and it slams into her eardrums, a relentless cacophony of bitterness and terror, accusing her of everything, _everything_, and as she manages to lift herself onto her hip, another quake claims the room. The walls shudder threateningly; more ceiling panels unhinge and plummet to the floor. The debris flutters down in a shower of silhouetted shards, and she stares upward into the exposed opening, water dropping into her eyes. The moon stares back, a pale, gibbous face, the shadowed craters playing hollow eyes and a gaping mouth.

_Take one more look at your precious human moon, because it cannot help you now._

Everything hurts, and she's going to die.

She twists about and her eyes dart frantically around the room. The conversion gel is a messy white-grey splatter beneath him on the floor. A single portal ripples in its center, a solid and unnatural orange, a hopeless dead end. There are no available surfaces to place another. The fire extinguishing protocol for the Stalemate Resolution Annex had made sure of that when it had washed the rest of the conversion gel away into sticky useless puddles. If only there were more!

_… your precious human moon, because it cannot help…_

Glancing back toward the moon, she feels the shaking force of another tremor. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nothing she can do, and fear wells up inside of her, constricting around her throat and filling the cavity of her chest and the spaces inside her lungs. She tries to swallow, but she can't. Her grip on the portal gun grows tighter, her palm slick with sweat.

_… precious human moon…_

Everything hurts, and if she doesn't do something, she's going to die.

The seconds tick past, drawing closer, and the facility continues to crumble. Thunder seems to crack from beneath her, issuing shocks through her bones. Another look at the gel, another at the moon—and then the pieces start to string together.

The portal gun is heavy in her hand, bearing down to the floor with a tired weight, but she sets her jaw and forces her muscles to move. Quivering, pain edging through, she aims her arm skyward, water speckling her skin, and her fingers tighten around the trigger, almost hesitant to comply.

_… human moon…_

The kickback plants her onto her spine. She's staring at the moon, staring, staring, her hair a damp mess with strands plastered to her skin in sweat, and a glimmer blooms across the sphere's surface. She feels the impact, wracking through every inch of her, and then there's a rush of _force_.

Panels are ripped from the walls, more of the ceiling collapses in, and she's thrust forward into a whirl of debris and water. She can hear him shouting as pieces of the chassis are torn off, and then she's next to him, falling, plummeting, and she reaches out with frantic hands because she's being sucked through to the other side. Her fingers catch onto the handles on his sides, and she hangs on for all she's worth, her body thrashing helplessly into the vacuum beyond.

The earth is a waning body in the vast darkness, bright and brilliant and extraordinary. Planes of grey spool out across the horizon as far as she can see, and as she's pulled further out, the oxygen flees from her lungs and she can no longer breathe. She gasps, struggling to bring in air, but everything's so _empty_ and only molecules remain and it's not enough to pump the blood through her brain and her insides are starting to hurt. Pressure inches closer against her skin, compressing, compressing, and the stars seem like blackening bursts behind her eyelids and her fingers are aching, aching, she doesn't want to let go, make it stop, make it _stop_, and then a crash shudders through her, and one hand slips.

He's still connected. He tells her to let go. He can still fix this. All she has to do is let go, and he can fix it. Let go, and be whirled out into space. Let go, and everything will be fine. Let go, and die.

_I've already fixed it._

And suddenly she's being pulled in. A mechanical limb reaches through the portal and grabs onto them, pinching the flesh on her forearm, hauling them back. She sucks in a testing breath, her ribcage expanding open, her body rejoicing as delicious oxygen flows into her hurting lungs. Drawn further into the portal, she can see the repairs that have already begun to take place: panels have righted themselves, new ones spawn from the walls, the ceiling slowly realigns, and the light above is harsh, almost blinding.

_You don't understand the gravity of what you've done. And how could you? Moron._

The tips of her long fall boots pass through, and everything stops. The howl, the vacuum, and the compression all dissipate into nothing—blissful, wonderful nothing. The grip on her arm soon releases, and she then falls to the floor in a heap, limp and shaking and quiet. Her heart is an over-calibrated aerial faith plate, crashing against the undersides of her ribs. He's still wrapped tightly in her hands, his spherical body now pressed against the slope of her belly.

_I should have let you go. It would have been more than fitting._

Before her eyes flutter shut, before she can slip into that comfortable, painless place of darkness and respite, she sees the yellow optic of GLaDOS flicker to life. The mechanical arm draws close, pincers flexing, reaching for her.

_But I have plans for you._

A clamping noise, and the crunch of metal.

_For science._

Even now, a year later, those words still make a chill clamber down the curvature of her spine.

Chell is sitting on her windowsill with the thin curtain pushed onto her lap, staring out into the midnight sky. The moon is a sliver, a thin crescent, a fingernail puncture in the starry black, and she gazes at it with a strange amalgam of curiosity and trepidation. Sometimes it seems like it was all a bad dream, a nightmare, like it was something she finally woke up from after all these years. She can't fathom being out there with the vastness of space sucking at her heels. She can't imagine being stuck in the depths of Aperture Science, forced to run tests for sentient mechanical beings. Just a couple weeks ago, she hadn't even been able to imagine seeing him again.

Now he's here, with her, present in a very human body, slowly (and quickly; his cognitive skills seem to jump between scenarios) following the process of integrating into human society. He's not the maniacal, power-mad AI that had tried to crush her with mashy-spike-plates, but he's not exactly the AI that had broken her out of stasis with the sole intent of self-preservation, either. And he's living in her rented apartment, sharing her meals, providing genuine conversation, learning how to do all these new things, and essentially happily coexisting in the life that she's managed to build for herself from the ground up.

Funny how the past can spit fragments back at you when you least expect it. Especially ones as big as Wheatley.

Chell rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm and stifles a yawn. She's been awake for hours now, gazing blankly at the stars, but she can't bring herself to sleep. Something seems to be tightening in the hollow of her chest, almost like an ache, and she can't figure out what it is. It keeps her awake, rolling along beneath her breastbone, rerouting her brain from slumber.

Stretching, she slides from the windowsill and drapes the curtain back into place. Moonbeams filter through the translucent fabric and dance across her bare toes. While her bedroom is mostly swathed in darkness, she's lived here long enough to know where everything is. She presses her right hand to the wall, and she follows it past the smooth wood of her bureau, careful to avoid the edges of the charred companion cube. It leads her across the plush red carpet in the center of the room to the small bedside table, and finally to the slender form of her mattress in the corner.

For a moment, Chell considers trying to go back to bed. Her body is physically tired and she feels the need to seek out reprieve, but her mind is awake as can be, flitting back and forth from one thought to another without any rhyme or reason. She picks up a tie from her nightstand and pulls her hair back, looping it twice, coming to the decision that further attempts to sleep will prove fruitless. No sense in trying to win a lost cause. She may be obstinate, but she knows when her mind doesn't want to obey. It's always best do something else to occupy it in the meantime.

The den is dark. The curtains are drawn, and the room is cast in murky shadow. After waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust, she walks out onto the carpet with soft, purposeful steps. She spots the metronome sitting on the floor by the sofa where she and Wheatley had taken their lunch, and she approaches it with a cautious stride. Studying it in the darkness, she reaches out with a steady hand and touches the smooth mahogany of the shell. It's pleasantly cool under her fingertips, making her arm tremble.

She pulls away and takes a seat on the rug. Carefully, she picks up the metronome, stretches her legs into a V, and places it between them at her knees. After taking a few choice breaths, she sets it into motion, and the periodic _tock-tock-tock_ fills the room.

Chell tries to concentrate. Closing her eyes, she tries to feel the rhythm inside of her, the gentle cadence outside that matches the flow of her blood within; to focus on it and to draw out the tiny thrum that she knows exists somewhere inside of her. This calming silence should be perfect for such an endeavor, but she finds that no matter how hard she tries, she can't summon it up. It seems caught in her throat, shut with lock and key.

Gathering her resolve, she exhales slowly and makes another attempt. She lets her muscles relax, listening to the ticking tempo, and she feels the resistance coil tightly within her diaphragm, a block wedged between her mouth and vocal chords. It's not falling away like it was before; there's no freedom, no rumble inside.

There's no reason why she shouldn't be able to do this. No reason at all.

Scowling at the metronome, she thrusts her fists down upon the floor in a loud _thomp_. The force shakes up her arms and through her chest, and she slumps forward, bowing her head in defeat. Moments pass, marked by the constant beats of the little instrument in front of her, and Chell can't help but feel frustrated. She could hum just fine before. She even did it before dinner, and without any help. What is _wrong_ with her?

A prickle makes her hair stand on end, and she senses movement somewhere behind her. She twists around, adrenaline pushing through her veins, and she sees Wheatley's lanky form standing in the threshold of his bedroom in the dark. He's rubbing at his eyes, his hair a tousled mess, his pajamas wrinkled from sleep.

"Wha…? Oh, that's the—oh, it really is on. Got out of bed and thought I was hearing things. Good to know I'm not crazy. Good to know." His jaw struggles with a mighty yawn as he ambles out into the den. Scratching the back of his neck, he sits down beside her on his haunches, peering at her through squinted eyes. He must have forgotten his glasses. "So, what're you doing out here in the dark? It's after midnight, you know. Should be asleep. Or if you're really determined, you should at least have a light on or something so you can see. Well, I suppose you don't really have to, but it'd probably be better."

Feeling inadequate and discouraged, Chell curls her arms around her waist. She doesn't want to confront him. She doesn't want him to know that she's taken a step backward. She's survived countless life-threatening situations, braved labyrinthine test chambers complete with lethal obstacles of varying intensities, faced power-hungry constructs of artificial intelligence intent on forcing testing compliance; and she's here, still alive, still hanging on after everything she's gone through, and yet she can't conquer herself?

Wheatley makes a thoughtful noise somewhere in his chest. "I can't see that well, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting used to reading your body language. What you did there isn't a good thing, is it?" He cranes his neck and tries to catch her eye, but she stares intently at the floor. "Something the matter?"

She makes a motion as if she's going to yawn, and then she stops and shakes her head.

"Oh. Can't sleep. Right. Got it." Wheatley glances at the metronome between her knees. "Trying to hum by yourself?"

Chell nods, but tightens her arms around her ribcage. A sinking feeling knots in the pit of her stomach and she finds herself wanting to curl up into a ball to hide.

"Mind if I join?" He smiles, working his hand through the snags in his hair. "I won't sound too awful. Hopefully. It might help the both of us. Maybe you'll get tired after a while."

She only manages a swallow. Chell can feel the tightness twisting in her chest, aching, and she wants so badly to scream out this feeling, but she can't. How does she expect to scream if she can't even find her voice?

"Here." Wheatley scoots closer, his hip nearly touching hers, and he mimics the placement of her legs. "We'll try something a bit different this time. Heard some music at the shop yesterday, so I'll give those a hum and we'll see how it goes. All right? Sound good?"

Chell shakes her head again. Her fingers move up her throat and open at her mouth, and then she slumps forward again, her bangs over her eyes, ashamed.

"… Oh. I see." Wheatley places a warm hand on her shoulder, and she can still smell the pleasant scent of soap on his skin. He squeezes gently; a comforting gesture. "Look, you don't need to do anything. All you've got to do is listen. Just listen. You can't force it. I know you're not going to believe me because you're stubborn and you've got a kind of tenacity that's off the bloody charts, and while that's a marvelous quality in any human, really, right up there with dispute resolving and button pushing—which are also still very good qualities by the way, just letting you know—I'm telling you… forcing yourself isn't going to make it any better."

Chell feels the pressure from his hand increase. She lifts her head, biting her lower lip, and she looks at him through strands of her hair. Everything is dim and the angled shape of his face is sculpted from spectrums of shadows, but she can still see the faint smile that curves the ends of his mouth. It's comforting and warm, and it looses a fluttering patter by her left lung.

"You know what will, though?" he asks, leaning close. "Time. Time and practice. And you've _got_ time now. You've got all the bloody time in the world! All the time to do whatever you want, to listen and hum and talk, and—and you know what? There's no rush." Wheatley thumbs the locks of hair out of her eyes with his other hand. She can see the soft shimmer in his, flickering and blue; a world of kindness and concern. "There's no rush. Can't run before you walk. One step at a time. And I realize this is coming from Wheatley, Wheatley the gangly human who's still figuring everything out for himself, Wheatley who still can't walk straight or remember how to use a bloody fork, but I _know_ this. I really do. It's in my head somewhere, and I just know it. _There's no rush_."

Chell finds herself splitting into a patchwork of trembles and tears. She crumples apart and her fingers are clawing into her ribs, blanching the flesh under her nightshirt, and the crescents of her eyes house blots of transparence that collect at the corners and tumble down the slopes of her cheeks. She doesn't know why she's doing this, she really doesn't; she's been so good and strong and careful, tucking everything safely within behind her bones where no one else could see, but the world seems pent up inside of her, pushing out the stitches with crippling strength, and she can't hold it in anymore.

"Oh, that's… okay, you're doing what I did that one day, that crying thing. Oh, that's not good. That's not good at all. Was not expecting that." Wheatley draws a breath between his teeth and straightens himself. "All right, uh… I'm going to be honest, not sure what to do here. Never exactly been on the, um… the observing end of this particular situation, as it were. I'm sort of guessing at this point, so bear with me. Bear with me."

And then she feels his arms encompass her. She's being pulled toward him, his hands pressing into the bend of her back and across her shoulder blades, and her legs are dragged away from the still-ticking metronome. Her face comes to rest against the fabric of his top, close enough to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart and the pumping bellows of his lungs, and her arms suddenly drop away and latch around his waist. She squeezes with all her might, shaking, while his fingers draw soothing circles along the length of her spine.

"Wow, that's good. Good, classic grip right there. Brilliant." A rumbling noise of discomfort can be heard under her ear. "Right, so—you're okay, all right? You're okay. Everything's fine. Breathe a bit. Breathe. That's it, slowly now. Everything's fine. I promise, everything's fine."

Chell feels the cuff of Wheatley's sleeve dab along the side of her face, soaking up the tears. She looks up at him in the dark, at the swell in his throat and the curves of his jaws and the length of his nose and at the particles of light that reflect off his eyes, and she digs her fingers into his shirt, clutching tight. She doesn't want to let go.

"You really know how to take someone's breath away, you know that? Quite literally. I'm not even joking. You're very, very good at squeezing the air right out." He chuckles awkwardly and bites at his lower lip as he tries to get another rolling tear with his damp sleeve. "Ah, there we go. That's better, isn't it?"

She replies with a sniffle and buries her head back into the folds of his top. Chell closes her eyes, taking trembling inhales, allowing herself to be lulled by his closeness. He shifts after a moment, and then his legs surround her body, effectively cocooning her between his lanky limbs. It's warm, incredibly so, and she feels herself leaning further into him, savoring the musky scent of his clothes.

"I'm sorry about this," he says, his voice a low murmur. "I'm not really good at this comforting thing. Never had to do it before. Didn't interact with anyone back _there_, just had to make sure everything was working properly. Didn't have a body like this, either. All I had was my voice." He swallows, and she feels his chin settle on top of her head. "This is what you did with me when I… when I was like this. And it felt good. So if it's not what I'm supposed to do, or if I should be doing something else, or… or something, just let me know."

Chell gives a slight nod, listening to the rhythm of his heart. She swears its cadence has increased within the past few minutes, but she can't be sure. It might just be her imagination.

Forgotten on the floor a few feet away, the metronome continues to tick. It's gentle and deliberate, a soothing tempo, and before long, she hears something else accompany it. A vibration thrums beneath her ear, and she realizes that Wheatley's started to hum. She can feel it under his skin, rumbling softly, welling up through his chest and beyond his throat, and it makes her breath hitch. The melody is staccato at first, but then the notes begin to change, and he draws them out in a smoother fashion, each connecting to the other seamlessly.

As the song progresses, she realizes that she _knows_ this. It's the same melody from the first lesson, the one she couldn't pin, the one that had opened her up and allowed her to find her voice somewhere in the space encased by the circle of her ribs. It's the same from a year ago, the one that drummed in her ears as she rocketed up the lift, the one that followed her into the bright blue sky.

It's the same, and yet it's different. His voice is lower, masculine, dropping notes where they should soar, and he shapes them into something uniquely _him_. Chell feels quivers dive down her back beneath the warm palms of his hands. It's a sharp reminder, an untouchable memento; she knows that everything—that Aperture and the running and the fighting and the portals and the explosions and the moon—it was all real.

The melody tapers off, dissipating in his chest, and Wheatley releases a shaky sigh.

"I remember," he says, his voice a threadbare whisper. "I remember I was down there somewhere, somewhere far below. I don't know where. I didn't recognize anything. It was all white and empty with all this equipment I'd never seen before. But I heard it. I heard all of it. It came through the ceiling and the pipes, everywhere, and I heard it." He strokes her back, slow and tender, his thumb tracing her spine. "It was… it was sad. But I knew it was about you. She'd never do anything like that for anyone or anything else. It had to be about you."

He swallows, and Chell can feel his muscles tense. She breathes deeply and focuses on the rhythms that play inside of him. His entire being is a song: the movements of his hands, the nod of his adam's apple, the steady widening and narrowing of his chest, the pulse of his heart.

"But you know what? I was happy. Even though I was lying there alone in that room, listening to that, scared out of my mind, I just… I had this _feeling_. I can't explain it. I just knew you were all right. And I remember thinking, even if you didn't forgive me for all the monstrous things I did, even if I never saw you again, even if I died in that bloody place, I knew it'd be all right, because I was… because I felt happy knowing you were okay. That you were finally out, that you were finally free." Wheatley chokes on a half-hearted laugh. "Is that—is that a weird thing to say? I don't actually know. Sorry, if it is. I don't really know what I'm talking about anymore. Just rubbish. Best just ignore it or something. I should probably stop now, so… stopping. Sorry."

Chell feels like she's floating. She looks up again, moving out from underneath his chin, and she unhooks one arm from around his waist. Slowly, she places her fingers on his chest, and then drags them upward along the slope of his neck and then to his mouth. She keeps them on his lips for a moment, feeling the gentle curves, and then strokes across. Everything is smooth, and she finds herself marveling at the textures. It's so different than earlier, but it's no less pleasant, and it pools a flickering warmth along her bones and into the ends of her nerves.

The muscles in his throat tighten. "I… I'm sorry," he murmurs. His hands are locked across the small of her back, his thumbs circling absently. "I don't really know what that means."

She mimics the motion, but on herself instead, opening her mouth in attempt to symbolize sound.

His brow furrows. "You—you want to keep talking?"

_Close_. She makes a circular motion with her hand, points to the metronome, and then presses the flat of her hand against his chest.

"Oh, the humming?" He looks somewhat relieved. "I can… yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Not a problem. Easy."

The soft vibrating thrum begins to settle beneath her as she rests her head back along his pectorals. His voice swings into a lower octave, tight and staccato, and the reminder begins anew. The beat of the metronome ticks into her eardrums, thumping into the weaving patterns of Wheatley's heart, and Chell feels her eyelids begin to slump.

The last thing she remembers is the press of his chin on her head and the tender kneading of his fingers along her shoulder blades.


	9. The Ritual

Wheatley wakes at half past dawn.

Lying in bed, suspended in the space between dreams and consciousness as muted sunrays creep through the curtains, he vaguely remembers the night before. It returns in pieces: the metronome, the encompassing dark, frustration in the highlights of her face, the warmth of her body against his chest, and the gentle touch of her hands. He remembers curling an arm under the bends of her knees, her back cradled in the crook of his elbow, and the gradual rise and fall of her ribcage as he carries her back to the comfort of her own bed. In the hollows of his eyelids, he can see the way her dark hair splays across her pillow as he sets her down, the moonbeams crossing her lashes, the serene smile that claims her in sleep.

In the back of his mind, he knows that he's the cause of that smile, even if only a part. He's the one that consoled her when she had needed it the most; _him_, him alone, and no one else. Faint sensations of warmth and pride press into him, making his chest swell, and satisfaction and contentment begin to take root behind his breastbone. They spread toward the pads of his fingers and into the soles of his feet, tingling at the base of his spine. Curling his toes in pleasure at the thought of her, a drowsy groan hums in the depth of his throat and he arches his back, stretching out his muscles in the tangle of covers.

Perhaps he's not as poor a human as he had thought. If he can comfort her, perhaps there's still some hope for him after all. He just has to sort out all the strange things he's been feeling lately. Bloody human body.

Wheatley eventually manages to roll out of bed and grab his glasses. He dresses himself with a greater attentiveness than before, taking care to smooth out the wrinkles in his pale blue button-down shirt and his black slacks. After brushing his teeth, he tries to take a comb to his hair as well, but no matter how much he runs the ends through the unruly stands, they refuse to adhere to a single direction. In the end, he decides that it's a useless endeavor. His hair is just going to become a shock of static the moment he steps outside, anyway.

When he sees Chell in the kitchen, he feels that familiar somersaulting sensation in his stomach. Still wearing her lilac-colored bedclothes with her hair let loose, she glances over at him from the oven with a sleepy look. Her expression instantly shifts to surprise, and she blinks a few times with widened eyes, as though disarmed.

He offers a bashful grin and scratches the back of his head. "Uh, do you like it? I thought I'd dress up a bit. First day and all, you know. The bloke there wears things like this, so I thought I might give it a go. Might help me fit in. So, do I look all right? I know my hair's an awful mess, but it just does whatever it wants, so I gave up. Pointless trying, really. Not worried about it too much, though." He runs a hand nervously down the front of his shirt. "I don't look too ridiculous, do I?"

Chell presses her lips together and she approaches him in a few short strides. With her arms folded, she appraises him with an up-and-down sweep of her eyes, halting briefly along his shoulders and hips. (He absently wonders if it's intentional. Why would those places be so interesting?) After a moment, she cranes her neck to meet his gaze and she gives him a thumbs-up with an approving smile.

"Ah, that's a relief. You have no idea. Really." He meanders to the table by the window and peers outside, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, trying to keep his mind off the twisting he feels inside the cavity of his chest. "I'll be honest though, I'm a bit excited. Never really done this before. I haven't had much practice working anywhere else besides the facility. It'll be different, but I'll get to be around instruments all the time, and he said he'd even teach me how to read music. Isn't that brilliant? It'll do wonders for our little lessons here! Well, when we get to the music part, anyway. That should be rather soon, actually, come to think of it… Oh, but the facility—a job at the facility's nothing now. I'll bet not even manufacturing can compare to this. Making turrets? Pff, child's work. Cubes? Nope, already beyond it. In your _face_, nepotistic bastard foreman, not hiring Wheatley for your bloody creation work, that'll show you—"

And then Chell suddenly pats his shoulder blade, stringing shivers up his body and shocking his back into a rigid line. He looks down in an instant, stopped mid-sentence, and upon seeing her _What the hell are you doing_ expression, complete with single arched eyebrow and judging stare, heat flushes along his face and he finds himself grinning anxiously.

"Oh," he manages, perhaps an octave too high, shrinking away. "Uh… yeah. Got a bit carried away there, didn't I? Sorry. I'm not bitter, though. I mean it. Honestly. Old rivalry, water under the bridge. Everything's fine." His thumb pushes his glasses up the bridge of his long nose, and he punctuates it with an awkward, trilling laugh.

With a smirk, Chell rolls her eyes and drifts back to the oven to keep watch on whatever is inside.

Wheatley watches her lean against the counter, her body relaxed and pleasantly contrapposto. (_You should now feel mentally reinvigorated. If you suspect staring at art has not provided the required intellectual sustenance—_) Feeling frazzled, he edges away, and when he's sure she's out of earshot, he presses a hand over his mouth and releases a shaky exhale into his palm. What the hell is his problem? He can feel the rapping of that knotted muscle inside his chest, cadenced quicker and coupled with that odd sensation of flight somewhere else in his stomach. Wheatley forces a swallow and gingerly rubs his fingers right above the hammering beat in hopes of soothing it. He's never been this jumpy before. Whatever's going on inside of him, it's definitely getting worse. And, he's going to be very honest: it's _really_ starting to worry him.

"Uh, not to interrupt or anything," he says, dropping his gaze to the floor, "but I've got a question. Well, a lot of questions, actually, but this one's particularly important. It's been bothering me an awful lot, and I'm really starting to think there's something wrong because… well, no one else seems to get the same way. At least, not that I can tell. If they do, they're bloody good at hiding it." He glances up and sees that she's got her hand on her hip as she looks at him from the oven. He laces his fingers together, noting the gentle slopes of her body beneath the folds of her clothes (why has he never noticed that before?), and he focuses intently on the window again because this is definitely not helping. "_So_, I was wondering if … maybe you knew? You're such a clever girl, you know almost everything. It'd be hard to imagine you not knowing. But if you don't know, that's fine, completely fine, but it would be very much appreciated if you did. Very much. Stressing that. A lot."

Chell nods and holds out her palm, signaling him to continue.

"Oh. Right." He nods to himself and draws a breath. "Right. Well, it's about these new things about being human. I told you how it's all new, right? Well, that's really the half truth: I could feel _some_ things with my previous body. Not everything of course, but it was very real, albeit simulated. You know, like the turrets' pain. Simulated. Don't know why humans bothered putting that in, honestly. Seems pretty useless to a robot, doesn't it? Why go to all the trouble for something like that? Never understood. But anyway, the real point is: only some things are new. And that's what I wanted to talk about."

Wheatley is rubbing his thumbs along his knotted fingers, watching the stretching color shift beneath his skin; reds and whites and spectrums in between. He's not sure why he's suddenly so nervous, but it's not helping him at all.

"It's… it's weird, actually," he continues. "But almost in a… in a good sort of way. But still weird. If that makes any sense. This was never included in my programming, so I'm not really sure what it is. I wouldn't exactly be asking if I was. I mean, I've felt those simulated things as a core, but this? Nothing like it. Not even anything to compare it to. It's crazy and I'm starting to think it's just this body because She's barking mad and you know She'd do almost anything to—well… you know." Wheatley swallows, shuffling the ill thoughts into the back of his brain. "Anyway, it's… it's a feeling. But it's not _that_ sort of feeling, you know? It's not an emotion. At least I don't think it is. I'm pretty sure I've come across all the emotions. Guilt is right awful, by the way. But it _is_ a feeling, and… bloody hell, I can't explain it very well, it's—"

And then a sharp, punctuated series of electronic chirps sound throughout the kitchen, stopping him short. Wheatley glances about in alarm, startled, and then he realizes from Chell's sudden movements that it's the oven. Curious, his problem momentarily forgotten, he collects himself and slips close, watching her with interest as she slides on a pair of mitts and pulls open the door in a pluming wave of heat.

"Oh, those smell good," he remarks, marveling at the tray in her hands. It's not a normal shaped tray, he notes; it's flat on the surface, but with cylindrical spaces that drop an inch or two below the lip. Each space is filled with what looks like some sort of bread, topped like a dome and speckled with dark flecks. "What are they?"

Chell takes long whiff of the hot bread-things, smiling, and she sets the tray on a small metal rack on the counter. She flits through the drawers about the kitchen, and then after a moment, she returns to the tray with a thin wooden stick about less than half the size of one of his fingers. Peering over the tray, she sinks the little apparatus into one of the domed tops. She takes it out and inspects it, and she seems to like what she sees because she places the wooden item beside the rack and goes to find the plates.

Wheatley is puzzled when she hands him a dish with one of the bread-things on it. The top is fluffy and most likely edible, but the bottom is encased in what looks like a colored paper of some sort. He gathers he's not supposed to eat that, though; she's smacked him for trying to consume similar things before.

Chell peels the paper off and takes a bite. Licking her lips to take care of the crumbs, she gestures for him to do the same.

Arching an eyebrow, Wheatley does so, and although the bread is incredibly hot, the taste is like nothing he's eaten before. "Oh, this is _brilliant_," he says, chewing on the spongy softness. "It's… it's sweet. I don't even know what the bluish dots are, but they're great. Tremendous! Where did you learn how to make these?"

She jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the thick red recipe book tucked away in the corner on the countertop with a proud grin.

He takes another thoughtful bite. "Ah, yes, books. Wonderful things, books. Not nearly as effective as databases, but still quite wonderful nonetheless." He gulps down the mouthful, sets the bread-thing down on the dish, and pauses for a moment. After taking stock and assessing his shortness of breath and the agitated flopping of his stomach, he finally bites the bullet and reaches out for her free arm, following the tug in his chest. "I… I think your hands are a bit better, though," he mutters, rolling his thumb along the knobs of her knuckles. The rest of his fingers hook under hers, and he feels the warmth that seeps through them and into his skin. "Books and databases can't make much on their own, you know. Lacking hands and all. Lacking… any kind of appendage, actually. They don't normally have those. But—well, you understand. It was a compliment. Take it at that."

Chell makes a slight nod of acknowledgement, her smile turning coy. He's not sure how to interpret that, but it looks _incredible_, and his already rapid heart rate rises a few ticks higher.

"So, would you want to try another lesson?" he asks tentatively, applying a slight pressure to her hand. "We still have some time before we have to leave. A lot of time, come to think of it. Should be more than enough. Oh, but don't think I'm forcing you or anything, because I'm not. That's the last thing I want to do. Forcing is not ideal, not at all, so if you don't want to, that's fine. You have no obligation whatsoever. Zero obligation. Not a drop. I was just throwing it out there, you know, in case you wanted to practice or something. But it's entirely voluntary. Entirely. Just wanted to make that clear."

Chell rolls her eyes, but she squeezes his hand and gives an affirmative nod.

Wheatley can't resist a grin. "Oh, brilliant! I'll go get the metronome. Wait here, all right? Back in a tick."

He sets down his plate on the counter and turns to go into the den, but he's suddenly stopped short by a thin arm curling around his waist. He feels her as she nuzzles her face into the column of his spine just below his shoulder blades, and he feels the curves of her body fit snugly into the arch of his back. Her breath warms the fabric of his shirt; shivers jump through the webbing of his nerves, and he bites sharply into the flesh of his tongue because he knows that feeling is back, the warmth pooling behind his breastbone, centering in the knot of his stomach.

"Wh-what's this for?" Wheatley tries to force his lungs to settle back into their normal breathing patterns, but it doesn't work. His heart is beating too fast, requiring far too much oxygen, and his brain supplies all this unneeded adrenaline. Bloody, defective human body.

He then hears the clinking sound of another plate being set down. Wheatley feels her other hand press above that thumping place in the hollow of his chest, her fingers curled into a tight fist. Unsure of how to react, he stands in a rigid line, swallowing thickly, his mind beginning to cloud over with the slew of reactions that seem so beyond his control. He's scrambling for words, something to say, anything at all, but they all slip away into broken fragments beyond his reach. All he can think of is how _good_ this feels, how the heat from her body pushes its way into his and how she renders him utterly speechless, how she seems to fit against him like this perfect puzzle piece; and all of this is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous; why the bloody hell should he feel the desire to be near her when things like _this_ happen? But he can't help it, it's that _feeling_, and god help him if he can't figure out what it is soon because he's starting to think he really might be going insane.

She pulls away after a moment or two of silence and strained breaths. Warmth-bereft and feeling some semblance of shock (is this shock? It has to be, what else would it feel like), he whirls around to meet her gaze with wide eyes, hoping his face isn't nearly as flushed as he thinks it is.

"Um… right. Okay. Not to be rude or anything, but this full-body-physical-contact thing is extremely confusing." His voice is a cracking noise dropping off his tongue, wavering between hoarse and breathless. Setting his jaw and threading his fingers into his hair in hopes of assuaging the tumult of thought inside his skull, he tries to focus on talking. He has to focus, _has to_, or else he's never going to get any words out.

"It feels… well, it feels very nice, actually," he continues, clearing his throat. "But I'll be honest, it's really starting to throw me off. For one, you keep doing it at the weirdest times. I mean, I was under the assumption that it was supposed to be for comfort, or… or whatever else it is that humans prefer to feel. Reassurance? Is that it? You know, like what happened the night before? With the crying thing? Comfort. Something like that. You're clever, you understand. So when you go and do it in situations that don't require that, it's obviously going to be a bit jarring. And two—well, I don't… actually have a two planned. Hadn't got quite got that far. I don't think these things completely through, do I? But while we're at it, while we're at it, just wanted to mention that I don't mind. The uh, the contact part. It might be jarring, but I don't mind."

He wants to say something further, to try and tell her again about all these things that have been driving him up a wall, but he looks at her and his voice gets snagged against the edges of his throat. Her brow is knit, the blue in her eyes placid and cool, her hands hanging casually past the gentle curves of her hips. Wheatley can see the way her teeth pull at her lower lip as she processes every word and the tiredness that dances in rings beneath her eyelids, and he really wishes his stomach would stop lurching around like this because it's making it very difficult to concentrate.

"I'm—I am still learning, though," he manages, nervously smoothing down the front of his shirt. "So… any help with this would be appreciated. Any at all. And that's directed at you, you with all your knowledge about human social cues. If I were you and you were me, I'd tell you if you were doing something wrong. Would you mind doing the same? I mean, if I should be doing something else or performing that comforting ritual more often, or if it's not even for comfort, just let me know, all right? Not asking for much. Just a heads up. Don't really care how you go about it; it's completely up to you, whatever your method of choice happens to be. I'd just very much appreciate it if I wasn't left in the dark."

The next thing he knows, Chell is clutching her ribs and shaking with silent laughter. He watches her as she leans against the counter for support, her eyes shut tight, and he's not sure what he should do because this isn't the reaction he had been expecting.

"What? Why are you laughing?" He inches a bit closer and hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, peering down at her, half expecting her to collapse onto her knees. "Seriously, though, I'm not joking. Why are you laughing? How is any of this funny? You've got a cruel sense of humor, lady."

Chell composes herself, dabbing at her eyes with the collar of her shirt and shuddering with a heavy sigh. She glances up at him, mouth still curved into a smile, her hair a splayed mess across her face, and she makes a dismissive shooing gesture with her hand. It takes him a moment to realize that she wants him to get the metronome from the other room. Wheatley is thoroughly lost (she never even replied to anything! … not that she _could_), but he does as he's instructed anyway. He comes back into the kitchen a minute later with the little instrument in tow, and he finds Chell at the table, their dishes at their respective places coupled with two glasses of milk.

Wheatley places the metronome by the window and sinks into his seat with a huff. Resting his elbows on the edges of the table, he steeples his fingers and looks at her with a thin frown. "All right. Well, I can't help but notice you haven't responded, so I'm just going to assume that means you'll tell me. You will, right? Hopefully? Go on, just a nod'll do. Even a hand gesture. I'll accept any form of yes. And perhaps a few forms of maybe."

She's got her hands close to her face, cupping the bread-thing between them as she's biting into the spongy blue-flecked side, but he can still see her give an affirmative nod in reply.

The tightness in his chest loosens a little, and he feels significantly better. "Oh, good. Good. Brilliant. A relief. That'll make things much easier." Grinning anxiously, he succumbs to the growling in his belly and reaches out for the unfinished bread-thing on his own plate. "So, with that mess out of the way, topic change. I still have no idea what these things are, but I'll tell you what: they're absolutely lovely." He bites into it, entertaining a mouthful of the soft textures. "Probably the best thing I ever ate. And I know I say that a lot about the things you make, but seriously, you've got a lot of talent. This is splendid. Top marks. And I do mean that."

Chell's face brightens at the compliment. A smile works its way there as she thumbs off a crumb or two from the corners of her mouth.

Wheatley pauses mid-bite and stares at her, suddenly struck with a realization. Back at the facility, she'd never smiled. Not even once. Even when he'd first arrived a few weeks ago, they were a true rarity, barred away behind walls of suspicion and distrust. But now, alone with her here and between all of these close moments, she seems to smile so often. They seem brought on by the smallest things: paying her compliments, asking about her work, and even saying good morning. He doesn't know why he's never really realized it before (has he just now started paying attention?), but her smiles are… appealing. Especially the ones aimed at him. And god, are those _ever_ wonderful; enough to make him feel like he's the luckiest man alive. (He really is the luckiest man alive, now that he thinks about it. Luckiest AI-turned-man, anyway.)

And for the strangest reason, he feels an abrupt, gripping compulsion: he wants to tell her. He wants to tell her that she's amazing and unbelievably strong and that her smiles are better than anything he's ever seen. He wants her to know that this _oddness_ he feels happens around her, and even though he's not sure what it is, he thinks it has something to do with her and the way she is. He hasn't a clue why, either. Humans get such strange impulses. Or is it only him?

The _tock-tock-tock_ of the metronome suddenly cracks into the silence of the room, and Wheatley jolts upright in his chair.

"Oh. I, uh, I suppose that means you're ready now," he says, running a hand awkwardly through his mop of hair.

Chell's shoulders shake with a silent laugh as she nods, and her fingers stretch across the table to brush a stray lock out from the lenses of his glasses. The pad of her thumb crosses his forehead, sketching a line of warmth, and Wheatley can't help but grin. Perhaps his problem can wait a bit longer. He doesn't want to ruin this. It's not that big a deal, is it? Just silly physical reactions. Nothing to alarm her about or concern her with. Nothing he can't handle. He'll get it all under control. Somehow. Hopefully. Right?

"So," he says brightly, shoving the thought aside, "fancy a hummed nursery rhyme? One note is fine, but let's see if we can't get you into other pitches. I know the other song was a bit hard, being… complex and with its octaves and all, but we'll go easier now. All right? And remember, all you really have to do is follow along."

After a he slows down the metronome to what he thinks is an appropriate tempo, he closes his eyes, gathers his courage, and begins to hum. It's a child's rhyme from somewhere in the back of his brain, simple and sweet, a girl and a lamb, and he focuses on the different notes that flash under his eyes. The muscles in his throat stretch and contract to accommodate the drops in pitch, and he tries his best to make each sound separate from the other. Wheatley repeats the song a few times to accentuate the patterns inside the notes, and on the fourth run-through, he hears the soft, wavering thrum of her voice.

His eyes snap open, but this time, he forces himself to continue. No matter how much he wants to stop and listen, he knows that if she's going to do this, she needs something to which she can compare herself, and he's the only one. If she can listen and manage to change her pitch, or better yet, match him note for note, it'll be progress.

And she _does_. God, she really does. It's nearly enough to make him choke in surprise and quit humming altogether, but he struggles to keep his voice steady and strong; a management rail for her to follow, something to help her along. She's slower at first, a few moments behind in rhythm, but before long, she manipulates the noises from her throat into smoother sounds, and she fights to copy the height and depth of each one.

It's a fascinating sight. Her eyes are closed, her hair framing the shape of her jaws, and her knuckles white as she clasps her fingers around the cup of milk before her. He can even see the gentle furrow along her brow as she channels her concentration and the slender line her lips make as they press together. It's captivating. Wheatley can't look away, and he's not really sure why.

But the feeling—oh, the feeling is remarkable. She's really humming with him, truly humming with the strength of her voice, _her_ voice, the thing she's kept hidden away for so long, the piece of her that only he's been able to witness, and she's falling into line with the rumble of his own and it's the most incredible thing he's ever felt. (Well, besides the strange full-body-physical-contact rituals.) And if this is any inclination to how the future might turn out when she finally finds the will inside her to talk… well, he can't bloody wait for that.

"That was… god, that was beautiful." Wheatley inwardly chuckles at his choice of word, but after skimming through his entire comprehensive range of vocabulary, he just can't think of anything better. "I do mean that, you know. Not just saying it. Your voice really is beautiful, and _you_, you're absolutely brilliant. You really are. And you're a bloody fast learner! I mean, I always knew you were, popping portals and completing tests all efficient and quick-like, but this just proves it. Love, you're _amazing_." He flexes his fingers experimentally and then reaches out to place them around one of her hands, still curled around her cup. "And I mean that as well. I know it probably seems like a ridiculous thing to say, but I am telling the truth. Wheatley's… well, he's not a good liar. A right awful one, to be honest."

Chell's grin is infectious, and he feels a sharp twist of thrill when she overlaps his hand with hers.

"Yeah, you'll be talking in no time at all," he says, somewhat softer, and he finds himself leaning closer across the table. "No doubt about it. Just have to keep practicing, and everything'll be great. Oh, but can you imagine? Conversations and songs? Especially the songs. Ha, I'm getting all shivery just thinking about it."

Her shoulders quiver with a laugh, and her hands leave the body of the cup and lace between his own. He's marveling at how warm and good her skin feels, her dexterous fingers tangling among his, pressing into the flesh of his palm; an assembling cradle of heat and bone. Moments of silence slither by, and he soon finds that he's on the edge of his seat, staring at her, hunched nearly halfway over the table.

Wheatley finds it increasingly hard to swallow. "Can I… can I ask a favor?"

Chell offers a slight nod in answer, her expression rippling with a drop of curiosity.

"I'd like to show you something. Not now, obviously, but maybe another day, when you're off." He's watching the movements of his thumb as he strokes along the slender path of her index finger. "I'd like to take you to the shop. If you'd let me. The bloke there said he'd teach me all these things about music if I wanted, and I know I'm going to learn a lot working there. I'd like you to see it. And I was thinking, maybe when I get a bit better at the piano, maybe you'd… I'd… I'd really like to play for you." He threads his free hand nervously through his hair and he manages a weak chuckle. "Do you—do you think that'd be all right? I'll make sure it's the best thing you ever heard, I promise. You won't regret it for a second."

When she smiles, squeezing his hand, elation swells beneath the undersides of his ribs. He reciprocates the pressure and focuses on the feeling of her skin, the heat and the tension coiling inside of his chest, and he feels like he should be doing _something_ but it's all a mass of fog and he can't for the life of him figure out what it is—

"Oh, wait, wait, what time is it?" Wheatley twists around in alarm, the memory of previous engagement at the music shop scrambling to the forefront of his brain, and he glances at the light green digital numbers glowing on the microwave. Eight-thirty is displayed in boxed numbers, the two dots in the center blinking to mark each passing second. He turns to face her again, biting at the inside of his cheek, and he loosens his grip on her hand as he rises to his feet. "Well… almost nine. Suppose I ought to leave then. Get there early. Head start and all. Wouldn't look too good if I was late, would it?"

He offers a sheepish smile and heads out of the kitchen, approaching the coat rack by the front door. As he shrugs into his coat's thick sleeves and fumbles with the buttons (he's never been that fond of buttons, awful things), he notices a piece of paper being shoved under his nose.

Wheatley gives it a curious look at first, but after he realizes what it is, he nods and pushes the last button through. "Ah, right. Probably wouldn't have been too good if I'd forgotten this, either, huh? Thank you." He accepts the folded application from her outstretched hand and tucks it into one of his pockets. After he shuffles into his shoes and tugs his knit cap over his head, he takes a deep breath and stares at the door. "Well, here we go. Feeling a bit jittery, if I'm honest. Wish me luck, yeah? Well, not literally speaking, of course. Or… speaking at all, actually. Or—no, you know what? Never mind. Just general good luck thoughts in my direction would be very much appreciated."

Wheatley then feels her bring her arms around his waist again and the faint pressure as she leans her cheek against his chest, just along his pectorals. He can feel a tremble of delight ignite in his backbone, thrumming through the vertebrae, and he hesitantly circles the bend of his arm around her shoulders and succumbs to a smile. He glances down at her, at the sleek sheen of her dark hair and the lilac color of her bedclothes and the smallness of her body and the comely features of her face half-pressed into the thick fabric his coat, and he feels that familiar fluttering thrill knotting somewhere under his ribs. He's not sure why this particular ritual makes him feel so light-headed and giddy, but if it means he can be close to her like this, even in spite of the things his defective body does, he thinks he might be able get used to it.

Chell shifts under his arm and looks up at him, and he can see the striking slate-blue of her eyes; raindrops on concrete and tile. Grinning, her expression bright, she pulls one slender hand away to form an encouraging thumbs-up, as if to say, _Good luck!_

Wheatley laughs and mimics her pose, savoring the enchanting curve of her smile.

Yes, he thinks. Yes, he can definitely get used to this.


	10. The Field

Chell remembers the day she returned to the wheat field.

She's been walking for miles. Gravel crunches under her boots as she wanders down the shoulder of the road. The asphalt is cracked and broken and weathered, alligatoring down the center, the surface a hide of crumbled cobble and greying tar. The dividing colors seem to have bled out long ago.

Outside the city limits, the erosion of civilization is painfully clear. She doesn't know whether she should feel depressed or afraid. She's missed so much. All she knows is what she's seen and read, and what she's managed to find smattered about in old newspaper clippings and various files back at the little insurance office.

No one talks about how humanity almost came to an end. They think and they remember and they lament, but if words are ever spoken, they're hushed and solemn from fear. Everyone has demons of their own, even an entire society that shares the same one. From what she's gathered, those events were all so long ago, but it's not her place to judge. She knows what it's like to want to hide and forget.

God, does she ever wish she could.

Chell can see the rolling waves in the distance, glinting gold under the ghosting touch of the midday sun. The field stretches beyond the old road, out into the horizon, rushing to clash against the impossible blue of the sky. It shouldn't, she knows, it really shouldn't, but the sight of it makes her heart ache with grief.

She steps off the gravel and follows the gentle slope off the road. Grass and wheat climb up her calves, whispering by, and she moves through the thick growth toward the place she thought she'd never see again.

It's not long before she can glimpse the grey body of the shed in the distance. It stands alone, a monolith of cracked concrete and rusted metal; a pillar of grief and bitterness and old scars and things she'd rather forget. And yet, in spite of it all, she's still here, stopped in the waving ocean of gold and grain, not quite far enough to feel safe.

She stares with her fists clenched, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. Her teeth sink into the pink of her tongue. It hurts—god, does it ever hurt—but it's better than the twisting wrench that's lancing through her chest.

That shed… that shed embodies everything. It's the past she's not quite been able to leave behind. It clings to her belly and beneath the casing of her skull, hanging on, close and intimate as a second skin. It leaves her wide-eyed at night, staring into ceilings as if she can see through to the stars and into the pale face of that gibbous moon. She can hear Her voice, cold and callous and alto, and she can hear his as well, a shaky and unsure tenor.

The tests, the turrets, the lasers, the vast chambers and yawning depths, and even _them_—all beneath the surface, beneath the eroding concrete and stretching roots of plants and miles of rocky earth.

Chell feels the wind as it dances over her shoulders and through her hair. Gooseflesh prickles along her arms, even beneath the warm sleeves of her jacket. Chills claim her bones, and all she can do is stare.

She's not sure what she meant to accomplish by coming here. All she knows is that she had to see this place. For one last time, perhaps. Or for closure. Or to remind her that her sleep is kept at bay by scarier things than nightmares.

It's times like this that she wishes she were stronger.

As the wind gusts into the curves of her back, the aurum and gray begins to blur and her eyes start to sting, and it's then that she realizes that she's been crying. Gritting her teeth, she rubs the wetness with the cuffs of her sleeves. She can't afford to do this now.

Chell breathes deeply, crisp air filling the spaces of her lungs. She ignores the cold that cuts down the still-damp trails on her cheeks and wades through the wheat, forcing her feet to move forward. Compulsion grips her at the strings of her heart, stretching and pulling them taut, and all she can see is the looming shape of the shed drawing forever closer. A beast, a monster; a memory given reality and metal flesh.

She's half a mile away, walking steady, composure barely held, and then she hears the unmistakable shuffling of movement. The glaring inconsistencies in sound suggest that it's not her. She knows what she sounds like, and it's definitely not this. This is from another body.

Fight or flight triggers in the back of her brain and her muscles tense, ready, waiting, her eyes darting across the flow of rippling gold. Wind whispers across her shoulders and past her ears. She strains to listen for the sounds, and when she finally catches a glimpse of an unnatural depression in the sea of stalks to her left, she whirls on her feet and rushes toward the threat, adrenaline pumping every step.

Lying in the wheat is a body. A man's body, to be precise. And he's alive.

His ribcage is heaving and his hands are clasped to his temples, his jaws clenched and his body curled. A swathe of Aperture orange envelops him from neck to toe. She seems to have startled him because he jerks at her feet and tries to roll away—only to end up on his belly, moaning pitifully.

He looks up at her, wetness in the crescents of his eyes, and that incredible blue pins her against the sky.

"Oh—oh, god." His voice.

His _voice_.

Alarmed, she backs away two steps, her brain thrusting her back _there_, back with the collapsing ceiling and the quaking floor and the moon and the portal and the gaping maw of blackness and bursting stars. Half of her thinks she's misheard, but the other half knows that voice is unmistakable. No one else has that lilt, that timbre; no one else has that shocked cadence.

God, his eyes. She's never seen them before in her life, but she knows them well. The color of his optic was no mistake.

The man presses his elbows into the ground and he tries to lift himself with his forearms, but it doesn't work. Instead, he collapses and a small noise wrenches out of him, whimpering and weak and afraid. His hair is a light brown, disheveled and windswept, and it sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck with perspiration and oil.

Filthy and dirt-smeared, he glances up at her again. His face seems gaunt and incredibly thin, matching the lanky jumble of muscle and limbs under the jumpsuit, and when he reaches out for her with shaking fingers, she can see the bones press up beneath the skin of his hand.

"It's… it's you." The man's mouth widens into a half smile, half grimace. "I never… I never thought… god, it's really you. I can't… do you remember? It's all right if you don't. I don't know how long it's been. I wouldn't expect you to. I just—I was—I was so—" And then with the shuddering exertion of another inhale, he seems to come apart. His entire frame convulses for a moment, and then tears are sliding down his face.

"Please." He's fallen onto the ground again, his cheek mashed against thick wheat stalks. "I don't—I don't know where I am. S-something's wrong. I shouldn't be like this. Please, I—" He makes an anguished moan and curls in on himself, his body shivering. "Hurt. Everything hurts. I don't know why. I've never felt like this."

Chell can only stare. She knows it shouldn't be possible, but somehow it is, it _is_, and he's in front of her in a pathetic patchwork of flesh and bone instead of metal and wires. Something inside of her twists, sharp and aching and painfully tight, and even though her mind is shouting at her to move, to get away and leave him stranded out here among the wheat and the November sky, she doesn't.

Aperture has come back to haunt her again. This time, it's regurgitated one of the very things that's kept her so sleepless at her own feet. She doesn't know why, she doesn't know how; all she can hear is his voice in the solemn darkness of her room, cold and ruthless and floating among the dust motes beneath the pale moonbeams:

_I _loathe_ you, you arrogant, smugly quiet, awful jumpsuited monster of a woman._

She stares at the feeble man curled among the wheat, breathing and reeling and trying so hard to keep herself in check, but she's failing miserably because she can feel her eyes stinging again and her fists have clenched so hard that her knuckles are pallid as smoke.

That blue. That bright, brilliant blue—

Everything whirls around her, spinning skies and swirling stalks, and then suddenly she's running as fast as she can—running from him, from his voice, from the brightness in his eyes and from the pain and the grief, from the memories and the nightmares and the restless nights and blank black ceilings.

She can hear him cry out. It's a desperate noise, keening and sharp. It punctures through, a harpoon between her ribs, spearing her lungs and heart in a single shot.

Looking over her shoulder, her feet slowing to a tentative halt, she sees him as he staggers to his feet. He can barely hold himself. Wobbling and unsteady, it seems as though he's going to topple over with the slightest breath of wind. One bony hand reaches out toward her, quivering, his sallow face an anguished conglomerate of shape and shadow in the distance.

She wishes she knew the reason why she let him run to her.

He crashes into her stomach, chasing the wind straight from her lungs. The weight of him knocks her equilibrium askew and they tumble into the wheat, a splash of orange and blue among shivering gold. His arms are latched around her, squeezing, desperate, his face buried into the front of her jacket. With shuddering shoulders and a heaving back, he mumbles endlessly, stringing half-sentences and strong words together in hopes of achieving sense.

"I-I don't—I'm—you're really—god, I j-just—I wish—I'm… I'm _sorry_." A sharp breath. His hands grip tighter, twisting into her coat, twisting into the knot of her heart. "I'm… sorry. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't… can't even tell you. I'm just so sorry."

Another breath, shaky and overflowing from the back of his throat.

"I did so many things. Terrible things. I was a… a monster. You don't know what it was like. It was just creeping back there, constantly whispering. And it felt like—like I could only watch. Like I couldn't even take control. It was everywhere, talking and talking, and I couldn't do anything about it."

Chell is frozen in place, stunned and overwhelmed, her hands hovering in mid-air. She doesn't know what to do with them. Tears leave damp splotches on her jacket while the rest of his body is splayed awkwardly down her legs. He doesn't seem to notice her discomfort; he's too caught up in the apologies running down his tongue.

"And you're here," he murmurs on, pushing his face further into the folds of her coat. "God, you're here, you're _here_. I don't know why. After everything, I don't know why. Why did you come back? This place is… is poison. It _does_ things. Horrible things. _I_ did… horrible things." Yet another shudder, as if recalling the creeping itch. "I don't know why you're here and I think I'm still dreaming somehow but just… it's… it's good to see you. Really. Even if it is only your coat." He attempts a weak laugh, but it slowly dissolves into hiccupping sobs.

Chell discovers a use for her hands. Gently, she settles them onto the rigid planes of his shoulder blades, and she begins to knead. Her palms are resting flat as her thumbs weave soft, soothing circles. The muscle beneath her fingertips is tense, unyielding, and she works the strength of her arms into every motion.

She doesn't know why she's doing this. He's right: after everything that's happened, she shouldn't be here. She should still be running, flying, dashing through the wheat and grass, back toward the safety of the alligator road. She should be whipping past the crumbling ruins and haunting dreams, beyond the nightmare beneath that shed, using every heartbeat to push her back toward humanity, toward life.

But with this—this _man_, this human man, this somehow-human Wheatley crying in the shelter of her lap… It's strange. The idea of abandoning him sits sour in the pit of her stomach.

Gentle zephyrs stir the growth around her, fluttering through the thick mop of his hair. His head is a foreign weight cradled in the shelter of her lap, but it's a warm, pleasant pressure. After a minute or two of soft wind and rustling wheat, she hears the jagged hitching of his breath begin to slow. His back no longer heaves or shudders. His fists begin to loosen, and as she continues to work the tension out of his shoulders, she feels him draw in a deep breath and sigh.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, pressing his nose against her belly. "I know they're just words, I know they are, and I know I can't make you believe them, but they're the truth. They really are. And I'm—sorry. I never should have made you do any of… of what you did. I never should have—have—_replaced_ Her. I just… I thought I could do some good, you know? I thought I could help. And I thought, well, if I got control of the facility, I could get us out. Pull down the lift and pop up to the surface. That's what I wanted, what I _meant_… but I… I couldn't. I couldn't handle it. I don't know what went wrong. I just—everything was so different."

He shifts, pulling back to glance up at her. His chin rests awkwardly on her legs as his eyes strain to meet her own. She never knew a color could be so bright, so alive. His teeth worry at his lower lip, chewing at the already chapped, broken skin.

"Maybe if you'd been the robot and I'd been the human," he says, brow beetled, "maybe then everything would've been all right." A shaky breath, quick and threadbare; a whisper of wind from fragile lungs. "You're strong, you know. You're… you're great. You'd have won. You would've. I know it. You're brilliant and strong, so strong. You would have done things right. You really would've."

Her hands are hovering on the crests of his shoulders, the orange fabric of his Aperture-orange jumpsuit kissing the lifelines crissing across the smoothing surface of her palms. All she can see is harsh, violent blue.

"I wish it all was different." Damp streaks have curved paths of smeared dirt down his gaunt cheeks. "I wish… I wish I hadn't… hadn't led us there. Maybe—maybe we could've found another way out. I mean, the place is so bloody huge, who knows, they're probably a thousand ways to the surface. You could've… well. Carried me. Management rails probably wouldn't have helped all that much, being off the beaten path and all."

He tries to move again, but a wince of pain contorts the sharp features of his face, and then he's buried against her belly again.

"I-I'm sorry. I'm—this hurts. This hurts a lot, actually. I don't really know what's going on, but I'm—oh, w-wow. You know what? I just realized, you probably think I'm mental, don't you?" He makes a choked laughing sound, muffled by the material of her jacket. "I didn't even think about it. Just, you know, some bloke in a field telling you all this rubbish about that place… sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Ridiculous! But you've probably guessed I'm not just some bloke by now. I mean, if you haven't, that's okay, because then maybe you don't remember everything that happened, and maybe then none of this would make any sense and I'm just this idiot saying he's sorry for god only knows what reason, and—"

Chell gives him a firm pat on the back, effectively bringing his sentence to a stop. She feels him shudder; another forced laugh.

"Sorry," he murmurs, his fingers digging fiercely into her coat once more. His voice is coming apart, splitting at the seams, cracking in trembling syllables. "I'm—I'm so s-sorry."

He continues to clutch at her, his grip achingly tight. She can only marvel at him in stunned stillness.

Allowing him to recover from his flood of inner tumult is easy. Helping him stand, however, is not so simple.

He's so incredibly thin. Protruding wrists, sharp knuckles, and sunken eyes make him seem half a corpse. Even though Aperture seems to take decent care of test subjects in suspended animation, his muscles seem to have suffered some degree of atrophy from lack of use. Honestly, it's a wonder he's even managed to crawl this far.

Chell coaxes him up, curling an arm about his waist and hauling him onto his feet. She can feel bones beneath as she keeps him close and tests his balance. It's an almost unsettling feeling. Noting his unsteady equilibrium and quivering legs, she can only assume that his body has been in stasis for an extended period of time. Years, she suspects. Many years at the very least. Walking will undoubtedly be a chore for a while.

Letting him lean his weight onto her shoulders, she takes a step forward. He follows. It's awkward at first because his steps are wobbly and mismatched and his legs are limp and buckling like noodles. He's frustrated, she knows; he's studying her feet with serious intent, glancing back to his own to ensure he's mimicking her placement. With teeth pressed into the flesh of his lip, he tenses up and makes an exasperated grunting noise as he brings another foot forward.

Eventually, after several tries and countless almost-falls, he manages to establish a proper walking pattern. Chell is proud.

The wheat climbs their calves and tickles their thighs as they gradually traverse the field. The sky is a gaping swallow of blue above, cirrus sailing across in delicate wisps. It's capturing, and it's not long before she realizes that Wheatley is very astounded with the world. Chell finds that she has to slow down every now and then because even though he's very much a slip of a man, he's a bit heavier than he seems, and when he wants to stop dead in his tracks, he does so with great purpose, much like an overly tall paperweight.

"It's… it's beautiful."

Wheatley brings her to another full stop, his eyes wide with wonderment. Blinking with the gusting wind, the open collar of his orange jumpsuit flutters against the pale column of his neck and he drinks in color and sight and the endless expanse of stretching horizon beyond.

Absently, Chell wonders what this must be like for him. She doesn't know how far his knowledge extends beyond Aperture's constricting walls and countless protocols. He's spent a great deal of time inhabiting the chassis of a personality core in a place with little to no access to the outside world, and now that she really thinks about it, she doesn't even know if he knows that this is what the surface is supposed to look like.

Chell looks up at him. He's shaking again, she notes. His spine is trembling beneath her arm.

"Never thought I'd see this, you know. After… after being down there." His mouth twists into a half smile as he gazes out into the world, seeming completely enraptured. Dampness is welling in the crescents of his eyes once more, glinting in sunbeams, and all she can see is that clear and incredible blue. "Well, really, I… I never thought I'd be like this, either. Fleshy, and… well. Human. Bit of a surprise, you know? Robot one day, this the next. Not something you'd expect."

She only nods.

"I…" Wheatley swallows, the tendons in his throat stretching with the motion. His hand tightens around her shoulder. "I… I just—" Leaving the words suspended, he makes a light grunt of displeasure and shakes his head. He can't seem to make his mouth form the words he wants. Setting his jaw, he glances down at her, and his entire body seems to succumb to a wracking shiver. "I… Thank you."

Chell nods. It's all she can do. She isn't sure why he felt the need to say it—she hasn't really done much—but if it makes him feel better, she supposes it's all right.

They resume their trek through the wheat, brushing between the thick stalks and staring into the swallowing sky. Wheatley stumbles awkwardly alongside her, leaning into the strength of her body to keep him steady. It's such a strange feeling, and it's even stranger because she doesn't even know what's going to happen when they reach the field's end. What is she supposed to do? Take him in? Care for him? Part ways and leave him to his own devices on the deserted highway?

Gazing ahead toward the cracked and broken road, Chell is tempted to glance over her shoulder. She knows that the shed is there, looming in the distance. The skulking chimera of discord and nightmares that has slept inside of her for so long is beckoning from beyond the spindly bodies of wheat stalks and grass seeds.

She resists.

Stepping forward, Chell moves ahead—with the shed at her back and Wheatley at her side.

* * *

><p>As the door slams shut, she can still feel the chilled burst of wind from the field ghosting across her face. Cold air clings to her skin, prickling gooseflesh down her arms and quivers up her backbone. Moments pass before the heat of the flat enfolds her fully; raised hairs on her neck begin to smooth over, and then the clenching fear and uncertainty of the moment seep away into a gentle, comforting warmth.<p>

It's jarring at first. Staring at the dark wood of the door with hands limp at her sides, she suddenly realizes that she's never put so much trust—so much of _herself_—into someone before. In the depths of Aperture, when Wheatley had broken into her chamber and freed her, she had no choice but to place her trust in him. He had been her only way out.

But now?

In that field, she could have left him to die. She could have run away and never looked back. She could have left him like she had left the shed: a shadow, a memory; a husk to be shoved down, swallowed, forgotten.

But she didn't. Instead, she brought him with her. Him, a creation of Aperture—one of the very things that had burrowed into the marrow of her body to resurface during the night. And while the decision she made on the cracked surface of that beaten, weathered highway made the horrific events of her past seem all the more real, it also brought her closer toward facing the demons that have been plaguing her night after night after insomnia-driven night.

It's… jarring. For the first time since the incidents of Aperture Science, she feels safe.

Chell places a hand onto the grooved wood of the flat's door. She can feel the cold bleed through and sink into the lifelines of her palm. Cool air creeping from threshold nips softly at her toes. As she chews on the inside of her lip, fingers drawing into a fist, she can't help but wonder why she had decided to trust Wheatley in spite of all he's done.

It hadn't been without risk. In that field, in that place between the wheat and the sky, the magnitude of his sincerity had pierced her open and exposed every churning gear. She knows that regardless of what happened, seeing him in such a vulnerable state had struck a chord. Empathy is something that seems to have rooted deep.

If he had been the malicious AI once powered by GLaDOS's chassis, he could have done anything. He could have brought her back into Aperture, directed other AI to retrieve her, or even sprung a trap to kill her.

But if he truly were as corrupted and power-mad as he had been, he wouldn't be… well, he wouldn't be Wheatley. He wouldn't be so lighthearted, so eager, so willing and helpful. He wouldn't be so charming or—or so comfortable.

Chell sighs, pulling her hand away from the door. His presence has really become that familiar, hasn't it? Honestly, she shouldn't be surprised. Her routine centers around being with him, around taking care of him and enculturating him on the ways of being a proper human. Whether she wants to acknowledge it or not, with all of the time and attention he requires on a daily basis, he's involved in her life; so much that it seems almost strange not to think about him.

Glancing toward the window behind the sofa, she can just glimpse Wheatley's lanky body as he stumbles out into the streets. His knit cap is fit snugly over his static-magnet mop of hair while the rest of him is bundled up in a thick coat and warmer clothes. She finds herself peering curiously from the glass, looking past her silent reflection as he nudges into the crowd and slowly disappears from sight.

Her situation is bizarre, she knows, but she can't help but crack a smile.

She might be able to get used to this after all.


	11. The Photograph

Wheatley remembers the day he awoke.

Everything is a blur of color. The translucent heads-up display of numbers, status reports, and blinking corruption alerts is gone. Fuzzy and undefined, he's in a haze of blue and gold, brilliant and vivid and cool and bright, and no matter where he looks, everything is so endless and dizzying and _huge_.

He's curled on a slab of hard concrete, vertigo clamping tight, the Door behind him. He's not sure how he made it here. The last thing he remembers is a room of sharp white with a large metallic cylindrical structure of some sort in its center. He remembers being outside of it, hooked up by a port with a lumpy sheet-swathed gurney just a few feet away, and then he must have shorted out or something because then he remembers being _inside_ that chamber, vision fading; a heartbeat of black and the white beyond the glass.

Everything hurts. He's felt pain before, and he very much knows what it feels like. This is beyond anything he's ever known. It's a steady throb, pulsing through him, and it's centered toward where his central processing unit is loc—wait.

Wheatley tries to focus, attempting to run the proper subroutines to convince his sight to sharpen and depixilate, but nothing happens. He looks down, thoroughly confused, and then—oh dear god _hands_.

He yelps in alarm, and then he's thrashing about and he becomes even more terrified because _he can move_—how is that even possible, he hasn't even got a management rail!—and he finds himself scrambling headfirst into rolling waves of amber, hands—_his_ hands, they're _his_ hands!—grappling the ground and digging into soft earth and rough bodies of stalk, shoving him onward, onward. Something buckles, pain crawls upward and inside of him, and then he's managed to roll over somehow and now he can see everything up above, the sky, the clouds, bursts of white unspooled across an endless blue, the _world_.

He feels. He can feel. He doesn't know how it's possible, but he can. This is what it's like, isn't it? This must be. God. The ground beneath him, cool, cold, individual strands of grain bunching beneath his fingers, and it's so much to take in because he's never had fingers before, no, he mustn't have, this feels so incredible, so real, so wonderful; there's so much around him and it's struggling to push through into every inch of him so he can feel it all.

And then he realizes that he's breathing.

Wheatley hears himself take a soft inhale—it hurts a little, just a little, not as much as everywhere else—and he can hear the shaky, slow release. This is one of those things humans do, right? Breathing. They have to do it or they'll die. It's something for their brain, isn't it? Oxygen. It's a subconscious process that they don't even have to think about. It just happens so they don't have to worry about it. And once he worries about it, it stops.

The sudden halt of airflow is sharp and obvious. There's a swelling feeling centered in the middle of him, swelling and grasping and desperate and _oh god, oh god, what does he do, _the world is seeming to burst from inside of him—and then something sparks. He takes control, inhales, trying to suck in as much air as he can, drawing in sweet relief and ecstasy. Everything settles, the pain subsides, and it's with another grateful breath that he recognizes something: the damp scent of the earth.

It triggers. He doesn't know why it seems familiar, but it is, and it's something so deep and buried that he's having trouble understanding exactly why this sense of _I've done this before_ is permeating the moment. Panic settles in; the world seems to bleed into darkness, black closing tight.

There are little humans. Children. They're scattered about, playing in the grass and making gestures with tiny hands. Some move their mouths, but there's no sound. It's silent. One approaches with a questioning countenance, and he can see his hands reach out and ruffle the child's red hair, moving soft and smooth through the strands. Her hands grasp for the item in his lap, a small keyboard—he's got legs? Real legs, how amazing is that!—and he can hear his own quiet laughter as her fingers mash the keys. Clashing notes crash into the air, sharp and dissonant, and then the world opens up again, a gaping mouth of blue with a golden burn of sun in its center.

It's beautiful. Even though it's blurry and unfocused and colors seem to seep into places they shouldn't, it's beautiful. Before, he might have seen everything in pixel perfect perfection, but it can't compare to this. He can't quite figure out why. Why is this imperfection so much better?

He feels a surge of wonder grip him at the very center, tight and soaring and incredible. All he can do is look at the sky, absorbing everything that the world has to offer. It's so huge, he didn't think anything was that big, there's no ceiling, a place without end, how insane, and suddenly he feels like he's falling and his voice is welling up from somewhere and—

"Oh, god, I'm—I'm… I'm human. I'm actually… actually human. I don't—god, I'm _human_."

Wheatley can't seem to wrap his head around it because it doesn't make sense. It just doesn't. The last he remembers, he was a core. A robot. An AI. A mechanical, sentient being with every intent on staying that way. Then there's a jump, just this place where nothing exists, and now here he is, somewhere outside—_outside_, who would have thought—lying in a bunch of yellow plants.

And he can feel. He can feel everything moving around him, the wind and the earth and each stalk of grain, and although pain is scraping beneath, creeping and aching everywhere, he can feel and it's such an incredible sensation that it's almost overwhelming. He makes a grunting noise—not sure how that works, how odd—and he tries to get up to have a look at the rest of him, because really, he can scarcely believe this!

As he flounders about on the ground, figuring out how these appendages work (they're not supposed to bend certain ways, in case you were curious), he begins to laugh. He doesn't know why, but something just _clicks_, and he's a convulsing mass of lanky limbs. It's indescribable; it's strong and he can feel it working through him, beautiful and cathartic, exercising muscles inside of him that he's never used, _his_ muscles; he's got muscles and legs and he can truly _feel_, this is amazing!

Several minutes pass until he can properly breathe again. When he finally manages to sit up, he's hunched over, spine curved, legs bowed in front of him. He's aching all over, but that's not what's bothering him. It's the telltale Aperture orange that's all over this body.

All the wonder, all the delight, all the revelry that he had had in being human is sucked away into the bright, coiling color, devoured. Lingering chuckles trail off into thin wisps and slide back down his throat. Something inside of him is clutching his heart in a cold, constricting vice of fear.

That place. That horrible, terrible place. He's been there.

The gaps in his memory—they were there.

Wheatley strains to look behind him. His neck cranes, muscle protesting, and he gazes at the Door. The dark body of the shed seems so sinister, so foreboding, and he feels everything inside of him contract and twist like Her arms are pulling out his wires, his circuitry, his motherboard—

He lets out a strangled cry and starts to move. The wheat parts before him, brushing past his face and bare forearms, and then his limbs give out in a crumpled heap beneath him and he's a quivering wreck of orange and peach in a sea of swaying gold, curled as much into a sphere as he can manage. Maybe if he can fit it just right it'll all go back to normal, it has to, _it has to_—

The sky is cold and blue, insanely blue, enveloping him and smoothing out beneath his eyelids, and all he can think of is her, of her determination and her courage, of the earth as it rose above the black horizon, of the pain inside of him and of the noise humming inside his head, of Her and the Room and the Machine, and—

He opens his mouth and he lets out a scream, primal and raw and afraid.

What has She _done _to him?

This can't be happening. He must be powered down and this has to be a simulation of some kind fed from Her as punishment for all he's done. No, this isn't supposed to happen. This isn't normal. This isn't right. Why is he like this? Why did She decide to put him in this awful, fleshy thing? He can't remember how long it's been. He can only remember the blackness and stars and the sucking vacuum of space and the tight grip of her arms keeping him safe against her belly and the moon, the moon, the _moon_.

With shaking arms, Wheatley's managed to force himself onto his knees. He's crawling again through the plane of rippling gold, his stomach dragging across the ground, knuckles gnashing against tangles of roots and rocks and dirt as he claws forward. Desperate and terrified, all he knows is that he has to get away from this place. He has to get away from Her and Aperture and all of the ghastly, horrific things inside the swallowing labyrinth beneath that shed.

He crawls for nearly half a mile before he's spent. Ribcage heaving, he sprawls out among the wheat and closes his eyes, wishing the throb inside his head would lessen. The pain is too much, pressing and pulsing along his temples, and with every beat of that knotted muscle in his chest, it feels like everything is trying to escape and burst through the casing of his skull. He groans, a frail whimpering sound in his throat, and he winces when he tries to roll over because the rest of him hurts as well. Legs, arms, back, head; he can no longer move without feeling like everything is going to snap right off. He's not sure if any of it actually can, but he's not about to tempt fate. Humans can be such fragile little things, and luck is something he's never really had.

Wheatley tries to concentrate on breathing, on thinking, on living, on anything. A faint buzzing still purrs in his ears, quiet and frantic and somehow familiar, but his memory is muddled and he can't make much sense of what's happening. All he knows is that he's outside, really truly outside, stuck in this vast, gorgeous field of amber and wind and azure, and somehow he's been plunged in the shell of a smelly human body.

He has no idea why or how or even when. He doesn't know how long it's been, what he's supposed to do, or where he's supposed to go. He's never been left to make his own choices like this. He's been dictated by Her for so long, by Her and by Aperture and by everything else. His entire purpose has been defined solely by the facility for years on end. He's to take care of test subjects, to keep them safe, and ensure that their stasis is smooth and uninterrupted unless otherwise specified by the higher ups.

Without any of that, he's… pointless, isn't he?

He can't even imagine what he would do on his own. The only time he's ever attempted something outside his constraints, it's been with _her_. She's enabled him to do things he thought he'd never do. Not only did he plan a daring escape from within the belly of the beast, he defied the maniacal AI in charge. He pulled strings, tried to get her out, used every resource he could possibly use, and he had succeeded—to an extent.

Wheatley sifts through what memory fragments still remain, and he suddenly feels an indescribable clench of dread. Spikes, mashers, blades, bombs, elaborate puzzles of lasers and bottomless pits, convenient death options and mandatory killing—

He… he was a monster.

A tremble claims his human body and he finds himself breathing especially hard. He had tried to kill her. He had really tried to kill her. And that itch webbing through his circuits, compelling and insatiable and ravenous, it had commanded every part of him.

Even if he manages to find her out here, out in this cold, vast world, how can he even hope to meet her face?

Wheatley lies there, breathing, feeling, reeling, the wind nipping at the soles of his feet and the knuckles of his reddened hands. He's overwhelmed. Something feels like it's curling around inside of him, knotting around in the center of his chest, and it's painful. He doesn't know why this body is doing this. He wants to scream, he wants to shout and expel the creature that seems to be writhing inside of him, but he can't. Nothing will move. Cold is pressing in, cinching around his wrists and neck, and even if he could find the strength to scream, he doesn't think his voice would work.

Her… How can he ever expect to find her? The facility might stretch down for miles, but this place is so far beyond anything he's ever known. Aperture is only a tiny piece, a sliver, a drop in the ocean. To find her in a place like this would take lifetimes.

And yet, she's the only link he has out here. She gave him purpose beyond protocol. He did everything he could to help her, she gave him the means, he did it, he had the power, and it ate him from the inside out.

He grips bunches of stalks in his left hand, pulling, tightening, fingertips digging into root and soil. It hurts, everything does, but all he can do is breathe, think, and endure. He has to find a way out of his field. Other humans must be out here, they must, they have to be, and he's got to find them and get help somehow. He's got to find her. He's got one lifetime, just one, and he'll find her even if it means spending it a thousand times over.

She's… she's still alive, isn't she?

He swallows, hands pushing into the earth. His pallid knuckles flush with color as the muscles in his spindly arms string taut and raise his belly off the ground.

No, she has to be alive.

Wheatley pulls his legs beneath him, bare toes curling into the cold soles of his feet, and he cranes his neck to see over the flowing grain. Blue horizon, gorgeous and trembling blue, everywhere, crossing in every direction; blue and amber and chilling wind. He doesn't dare look behind him. He knows what's there.

She's got to be alive. She's too strong not to be. She's—

And then he remembers the opera.

His HUD kept streaming errors in long strings of red. He must have been so far down. It was muffled, but he could still hear. She was saying goodbye to her. It wasn't happy. It was goodbye. It was goodbye for good, good riddance, never bother me again you monster, but I might miss you a little.

Wheatley crawls forward. She is alive. She is. He knows it. She must be out here somewhere. He's not sure where, but she must be, she has to, and he's going to find her. The wheat is pressed under him as he inches onward, crushed and parted under the flats of his hands, and even though he doesn't know where he's going, the first step she would take would be to get away from There.

He crawls and crawls, and the further he gets, the weaker he feels. The human body can only do so much, but he doesn't know why his is acting like this. She was so incredible, her and the way she moved, how she jumped and sailed and soared and how she commanded every part of her so wonderfully, and he wishes he could do that. She made it look so easy. She made it seem effortless. She was beautiful.

He doesn't know why his insides feel like they're malfunctioning when he thinks of her. It's uncomfortable and it doesn't help the pain that's already there. Regardless, he keeps thinking of her because there's so much he wants to say. So much. He wishes he could tell her everything, all that he's felt and seen and done. It's welling up, brimming hotly underneath his skin, but he can't even begin to parse it into words.

The wear in his atrophied muscles begins to pull him to the ground. He wants so badly to give in to the aching that's settled into his limbs, into his head, but he can't, he just can't, he's got to find her.

Collapse is relief. He wants to move on and crawl forward, but he can't. He's so tired, so weak, so cold. Nothing is cooperating. Nothing responds when he tries to move. His shins are scraped and his fingers sting numb, pushing onto pulsing temples. His eyes flutter, and soon blackness sews into his vision.

He's got to find her. Please, please, let him go. Just let him go. This isn't fair. It isn't fair. He has to tell her first, please, let him go.

The crashing of wheat rattles into his skull. He doesn't know what it is, so he lies still. It stops only a few feet away, and he starts to expect Her and Her henchmen, Her robots, some way to extinguish him in this rotten, awful body, and so his eyes snap open.

He looks up—and there she is.

Jostled by the crowd, Wheatley comes to and finds himself on a street corner. He's being pushed aside, funneled along the curb, and his body seems to be on auto-pilot because he's still walking in spite of being buried in memories. Biting his lip and tugging down on his knit cap, he manages to slip through the throng toward the window of a nearby shop. He presses his back against the cold glass and he brings his hands to his mouth, breathing a hard exhale, ashen smoke unfurling toward the sky.

He's shaking now, and his head has started to hurt. He's not sure why it's decided to do this now of all times, but it's all the more proof that there's something terribly wrong with him. Ever since he awoke to find himself in this thing, everything's been so wrong.

He then pulls on an edge of his cap—the cap _she_ bought him—and he can't help but smile.

Not everything's wrong, he supposes. No, not everything. Definitely not everything.

Wheatley rubs his forehead and peels himself off of the shop's window. He can't afford to do things like this. He has to ignore the headache and concentrate. He's got a job to do this morning, after all. He has to prove that he can do this. He can do things properly and he can help make pennies just like everyone else. Because he can!

Right?

The music shop is pleasantly warm. The bell finishes its final chime as the door swings shut. Wheatley glances at his oblong reflection in the sheen of a nearby saxophone as he pulls off his cap. His hair looks just as ridiculous. Frowning into the golden body of the instrument, he tries to mat it down with his palm.

"Oh, there you are. Good, good. Glad you made it."

Thomas shuffles out of the back isles. His suit is a nicely pressed brown and black plaid. Wheatley likes the maroon colored tie tucked beneath the buttoned blazer and wants to say something about it, but before he can, Thomas tugs out the piece of paper that's hanging out of Wheatley's coat pocket. Unfolding it between craggy fingers, he peers at the application through thick circled glasses.

"Well. Hm. All right. You _do_ realize the only thing you filled in was your name, right? And that's just 'Wheatley.' No last name. Just Wheatley." One furry eyebrow arches and Thomas glances further down the wrinkled page. "No other biographical information… Your address is here, but honestly, I'm skeptical about that, too."

Wheatley nervously yanks on the ends of his gloves. "Well, yes, about that. I can explain. The thing is—I don't… really remember all of it."

"You don't remember your birthday?"

"I… well, no," Wheatley manages. "No, not really."

"You don't remember your phone number, do you?"

"Not unless you mean the little glowing numbers on the inside of it."

"What about previous employers?"

He remembers Her, he could never forget, never, but he keeps his mouth shut and shakes his head instead.

"Well then." Thomas scratches his scalp. "I suppose you can still lift things, can't you? Sort them? It's not difficult."

"I can do that." Wheatley nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, sure, I can do that. Not a problem! Just tell me what to do and I'll give it a go."

Thomas folds the application again. "Come along. This way. We'll get you a nametag and you can hang up your coat."

He turns on his brown dress shoes and makes his way down the back isles. Wheatley follows past gleaming instruments and portfolios of sheet music; past cleaning kits and screwdrivers and thumb-sized bottles of oil; past boxes of pristine metronomes; past the midnight body of the grand piano and its ivory teeth. Thomas approaches an old oak door—its surface worn, bled of once-rich color—and turns the round brass knob.

Inside is rather cozy, Wheatley thinks. (He has to duck to make sure he doesn't hit the door frame with his face.) It's a small room, squared, with a simple pine table and filing cabinets shoved against the walls. A window overlooks the slim frame of the table, its periwinkle curtains tucked to the side. A polished coatrack stands in the leftmost corner.

The office itself is nice. But that's not what Wheatley is staring at.

There are pictures. Dozens of them. Scores of them. They're everywhere, _everywhere_: tacked onto the walls, propped up on the desk, stuck onto cabinets with cutesy shaped magnets, plastered onto the surface of the window. Wheatley doesn't think he's ever seen so many in a single place. In fact, he's sure he hasn't. Everywhere he looks, there are rectangles of captured color spotted with smiling faces, snipped edges fitted into circled frames; pressed plastic, sanded wood, sheets of smooth glass.

He pockets his gloves, his knit cap bunched into a tingling-warm hand. Padding up to the pinewood table, he takes one of the small frames into his palm. His long fingers curl around the wooden edges, smudging the pane of glass. Smiling back at him is a petite woman with a rounded face and wavy autumn-red hair. She's bundled up in a thick black winter coat, arms crossed to warm her hands. Wheatley leans closer to study her face. It looks like someone peppered freckles onto her flushed cheeks with one of those shakers that Chell uses at mealtimes.

"Hey, who is this?" he asks.

Thomas has been rummaging around the office for something, presumably a nametag. He pauses and looks up from a cabinet drawer. "What? Who is what?"

"This." Wheatley flips the photograph frame to show him. "Who is this?"

"Oh." Wheatley notices the man's face visibly shift. His eyebrows knit, his worry lines deepen, his eyes cast to the floor. "That's Lottie."

"Well, Lottie's a lovely girl." Wheatley peers down at the picture again. "Is she your—ah, what is it—daughter?"

"No," says Thomas. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his plaid blazer, his shoulders slouched. "That was taken forty years ago."

Curious, Wheatley glances to him. "Where is she now?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Look, you're a nice fellow. Odd, but nice. This is a personal matter. I'd rather not get into it." He snatches the picture away, holding it protectively between his wrinkled hands.

"Oh. I'm sorry," says Wheatley, watching him as he gently places the frame back onto the desk. Thomas's fingers touch the glass, almost reverent. "I… I didn't realize."

"No, you didn't. Of course you didn't. You're not—" Thomas stops himself short with a grimace and squinted eyes. He draws a breath, phlegm rattling in his throat, and his hands flatten and smooth his white, thinning hair. "Sorry. Sorry. Just… try not to mention her."

Wheatley nods. As he backs away from the pine table, he begins to notice that all of the photographs on the walls, on the cabinets, slipped into frames and stuck with magnets—they're all of Lottie. In some, she's vibrant and young and healthy, and in others, she's older with graying hair and creases in her face.

He feels something strange, a soft pawing in the back of his head. He's not sure why this seems so important, so _familiar_, but it is. The urge to ask about Lottie barrels up his throat, but Wheatley bites his tongue because this Thomas is a kind person, a person kind enough to give him a metronome to help Chell, a person kind enough to offer him a job, and he doesn't want to offend him any further.

"Well, here you are." Thomas stands on the tips of his toes (with Wheatley bending down) and pins the white nametag to Wheatley's powdered blue shirt. It rests right above the left breast pocket, proudly reading in thick black capital marker: WHEATLEY. Two eighth notes decorate either side of his name.

"Good," says Thomas. "Now, let's get to the front and I'll show you around. We'll get down to business. Leave your coat back here."

Wheatley does as he's told. He shrugs off the rest of his coat and hangs it on the pillar-like coatrack in the corner. Next to the rack, he notes, is another picture of Lottie. She's cheerful, standing in the center of some park (he supposes), her dark eyes alight. She seems to be holding some sort of stringed instrument in her hand. It's small, brown, held near her shoulder, cradled like a dear treasure.

This photograph must be old, he thinks. The colors aren't quite as vivid as some of the other pictures. Or maybe that's just the glass. He can't be sure.

"Are you coming?" Wheatley can hear Thomas calling him from the front of the store.

His thumb runs over the smooth surface of the framed photograph. It's such a strange feeling, this pitter-patter in the back of his head, this peculiar sense of déjà vu—and he doesn't even know where it's from. It's starting to bother him, just like his headache, and he wants so much to understand what's wrong with him but it just seems like it's locked, barred, shut away and protected by the best security system. He couldn't hack it even if he tried.

"Wheatley!" Oh, dear. He sounds cross. Not good.

"Sorry!" Wheatley wrenches himself away from the frame and spins on his heel. "Right, of course! Coming, sorry! I'm coming!"

Panicking, he dashes out of the small office, leaving the walls of photographs—and Lottie—behind.


	12. The Dream

Chell wakes with a sharpness in her lungs.

Her heart is pounding double time. Chambers pumping, adrenaline pours through webs of veins and arteries, and all she can do is sink her fingers into the sheets to stop the shaking.

A nightmare. Only a nightmare.

She has to remember: it's only a nightmare.

The room gradually swirls into focus. The swimming darkness slinks back with the muted moonlight crawling from under the curtains and it presses itself against the ceiling and into safer corners. Soft beds of silver pool beneath the window, cool and calm, and in the almost palpable glow of moonlight, she can see the outline of the companion cube beyond the edges of her nightstand. The shadowed form of the bureau sits further across; a hunched creature with half open drawers.

With her mind so steeped in horrors, a cold jolt of fear slams into her ribs and melts through. Tendrils grasp at her heartstrings and pull them taut. Ice pushes into her lungs. She can feel everything start to pull apart—her thoughts, her feelings, her will—and she clenches her fingers into the flesh of her hands and curls in on herself because it's too much, it's too much, her throat is constricting and it feels like the pressure of a hand is on her windpipe, why are they doing this, it's _too much_, and—

No.

It's a nightmare. It's a nightmare and it can't hurt anymore.

Her pillow is damp. The sheets tangled between her legs stick to her skin. Swallowing down all the darkness and terror and fear, peeling off the covers, she rubs her eyes with the inside of her wrist and forces herself to get up.

Outside of her room is the black silence of zero hour. The fluttering drone of Wheatley's soft snores pervades the gentle quiet. Pale light bleeds in from beneath the curtained windows, the den illuminated only by spotlights cast upon the floor.

With careful steps, slow and purposeful, heel-to-toe, she makes her way toward the bathroom closet. She can feel each floorboard beneath the soles of her feet. They're cold and smooth and offer the peaceful, familiar feeling of a world beyond her nightmares.

It's her anchor. The floor is real beneath her. Cool and real and something complete and sure that she can count on. There are no gaping chasms, no widening pits, no seas of corrosive chemicals, no maws of infinite black. She cannot plummet into the ground or squeeze herself between the boards, no matter how hard she might press.

The prickling dread that something lurks on the outskirts of her vision begins to numb into a smoother, scraping caress.

It's only a nightmare.

Her fingertip hits the light switch. When her eyes squint shut, a kaleidoscope of colored shapes imprints behind her lids. Mirror, cabinet, sink, faucet, toilet, tub, towel rack. She doesn't need to see to have her palms kiss the surface of the closet door.

The fresh towel isn't soft, but it isn't rough, either. It hasn't gone through as many washes as the others have. It's not as old or as worn, but she takes it and hangs it over her shoulder.

Sheets come next. Cheap ones. They're folded neatly on top of each other in perfect squares, pillow cases nestled on top. A somewhat coarse texture meets her fingers, and pastel floral patterns come into focus. They're not the most comfortable of linens—she could have chosen better, honestly—but she is practical. A lesser thread count feels better than anything back There.

When the light winks out, she can still see the room through closed eyes. The moonbeams from under the windows seem soaked up by the shock. Everything is a milky grey spectrum adorned with shifting masses of color and it blinks with her heartbeat.

One hand extended, feeling out in the dark, she holds the sheets close to her chest and wades toward her bedroom. The soft pats of her footsteps rattle under the casing of her skull. Every step could wake the dead.

Her legs gradually cease to work as she draws close to his room, like cold maple syrup pouring from a bottle on a frosty morning. Part of her begins to wonder why she's stopping, but the rest gently pushes the thought to the side. Her hand reaches out for the door, trembling, hesitant, and before she realizes what she's doing, it's too late; there is no resistance, no door; she's standing there, awake, alone; and a shivering shadow makes its home in the half-open doorway.

And there at quarter-past midnight, planted within the wooden frame, Chell finds herself staring through billowing darkness and struck with a petrifying kind of wonderment. Her heart is shoved into some peculiar place that she can't quite name.

The pulsing blindness from the bathroom light starts to seep away. Slowly, the room shifts into focus.

One of Wheatley's skinny legs hangs off the mattress, dangling but still, one arm crooked behind his head and buried beneath a pillow. The covers are bunched toward the foot of the bed as if he had kicked them down not too long ago in his sleep. His plaid pajamas don't quite meet his wrists and ankles; tight, pale skin wraps around muscle and bone there, and it's a despairing reminder of just how malnourished he's been.

There it is again. That odd… feeling. Her heart being pulled in such a way that it feels as though someone's trying to pry it apart.

Leaning against the jamb, Chell closes her eyes and concentrates on the rhythmic rumble of Wheatley's snores. They are not as loud and obnoxious as she had imagined. They are a deeper, huskier noise. Breathy on the inhale. Exhales sometimes have a shudder.

Unbidden, it brings a warm, swelling sensation to the space between her pumping lungs.

When she first brought him home, she did not sleep. Her nights were spent wide-eyed to the ceiling, mapping the sounds he made in her head. She had wanted to believe in the sincerity of his apology, but the monsters in her dreams pulled her paranoia out in strings.

In every nightmare, the hum of the machinery stirred something in the deepest places of her mind. It was something visceral. Something primal. Something so deeply human, so animal, so private and so foreign. It was a switch in the back of her skull.

It was fear.

Everything came welling out of the woodwork. Glimpses of a golden eye in the dark; of moving walls pushing close; of cold metal clanging under her feet and smothering liquid sluicing down her back; of inhaling adrenal vapor and crimson pinpricks parting through fog; and of _Yesterday, I saw a deer_.

There was no greater test than sleeping beneath the same roof.

And yet, here, now, at quarter-past midnight, standing in the frame of Wheatley's doorway, she finds herself taking comfort in the soft drone of his snores. There is no paranoia, no sorrow, no terror—only relief.

It's the strangest feeling. She doesn't know what to make of it. The ravenous monster he became climbs into her nightmares, splitting the ground beneath her into yawning caverns without end, and she's falling, falling, watching him from so far below; he's a breathing mechanical silhouette in the glowing body of the moon, poised on high. That being lingers on the fringe of her thoughts, melding into her dreams with the flight of the sun, and she can still hear his voice, his and Hers, and they feel so pressed into her eardrums that even though time has passed, she can hear every word, every threat, every promise, and chills burrow deeply into her bones.

And inexplicably, in the face of all of this, in the face of her dreams and nightmares and in the fear of that terrifying place, she is drawn to him.

The sheets in the cradle of her arms have become an anchor. Her knees are buckling, knocking inward, and she's struggling to keep herself still. The doorjamb is no longer a proper support.

Is it camaraderie? she wonders. Sympathy, perhaps? Was a friendship somehow forged out of the horror of Aperture?

Her feet shift forward. A soft _shuff_ along the smooth wood of the floor. And then up, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, pathing toward the bunched covers at the bottom of the bed.

There has to be some kind of explanation. There must be. There has to be a reason why she feels so at peace with the man—The creature? The AI?—who had tried to kill her.

The linens are now stacked neatly on the floor, the towel folded on top. She's standing at the foot of the bed, palms slick, heart throbbing in her neck, lost for… well, not words. She doesn't know how to parse the flood of emotion that's gathering before her.

Wheatley isn't a construct of technology any longer. It holds no power over him. He's not the monster of her nightmares—but he is. He is and he isn't. He's a thin, bumbling goof and he's the menacing voice of, "You had to play bloody cat and mouse, didn't you?" It's this funny little paradox that has her snagged by the throat, roping around, making her choke.

Chell stares at him splayed across the mattress. The steady cadence of his breathing eases her; his presence is warmth and comfort. She tries to swallow, but her muscles won't respond. God, what _is_ this?

A soft groan marks his movement. Wheatley rolls about onto his side, curling up and tucking his legs in. His too-short pajama shirt rides up his side in the midst. Thinness and ribs peer back under plaid blue. His mop of hair is in disarray on the plane of his pillow, tousled from sleep.

Adrenaline stirs in webs and her body grows tense. Half of her wants to bolt out of the room—but that would surely wake up him up, right?—and half wants to help herself in right next to him, to soak in his heat and closeness, to steep in that gentle warmth.

To be quite honest, she doesn't know where the latter half gets its ideas.

Picking up her linens and towel with care, she turns to quietly retrace her steps out of his room. She shouldn't have come in to begin with, she knows, but the demons in her sleep always seem so fierce, so real, because they _were_, and in that clenching realness and terror, they drove her from the creeping darkness of her own bed to seek solace.

And... well, apparently Wheatley is solace. Somehow.

Stepping lightly, she cradles the linens to her chest. She's almost out. Just another step to the jamb, and then she can resume her task and change her sweat-soaked sheets. Perhaps in a few hours she'll be able to—

"Mm? Mmoh, hello."

Oh, god. What? How did he—?

Chell spins around, sheets and towel clutched tightly, eyes wide. Her spine straightens and her shoulders lock. Her limbs feel frozen, heavy, and yet there's a fire behind her breastbone. The drumming in her ears won't stop.

Wheatley twists onto his back and arches off the bed in a long stretch. Small cricks can be heard as he adjusts, and a mighty yawn forces him to bury his face into the pillow.

"Mm, sorry," he says, propping himself up on his forearms. His eyes aren't quite open all the way and grogginess drags through his words. "S'not morning yet, is it? What're… oh, what're you doing up? Can't sleep?"

She shakes her head in reply.

"Been having a lot of that lately," Wheatley murmurs, knuckles cracking. "Can't be good for you, can it?" Another yawn. More stretching. Spindly fingers hooking in on one another: _pop_, _pop_, _pop_.

There's that tight swelling in her ribcage again. The pumping of her heart accelerates and the aftermath of the adrenaline rush pulls through her veins. She continues to stare at him as he attempts to compose himself, and she doesn't know why, but it's just… endearing.

"You okay?" he manages after another yawn. "You look a bit… well, off."

Nodding, she consciously makes herself look at the dresser, the closet, his hat perched on the bedpost—anywhere else. She hopes he hasn't realized she purposefully entered his room. The incredible urge to hide sweeps up and engulfs her, smothering any sense.

Wheatley finally manages to sit up, legs crossed. She can't quite make out his eyes in the darkness, but it feels like he's appraising her, and the notion of diving under the bed to escape his scrutiny seems more and more like a good idea the longer she waits.

"You know, I just had the strangest dream." He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, completely unfazed—or maybe unaware. "Well, not _exactly_ the strangest, but it was definitely strange because it keeps popping up. I didn't know who it was before, but now—now I think I know. See, there's a lady at the shop. I met her today. Yesterday. Sort of. Her name's Lottie. She's in pictures, but she was in my dream."

Chell's grip on the sheets loosen as the beating of the knot in her chest begins to slow. She feels her muscles ease and relax. She's not sure if it's because he's not fully awake, but his words make less sense than usual.

"It's so weird," says Wheatley. His brow is beetled in fatigue and thought. "I… I think I know her. Knew her. Know? I don't know. It's this feeling. Don't really know how to explain that. But not like she was in the pictures. She was… she was different. Smaller. Little thing. But I remember, I remember her. I remember her hair, her eyes, the dots on her face. I remember all of it. She was so small, playing with this tiny little piano, and I was… I was…"

Wheatley peers down at his hands. He flexes his fingers inward, pressing into the flesh of his palms. Chell can see his skin pull across his bones and the pronounced sharpness of his knuckles in the dark.

"I don't really know what I was, actually. I think I was this. I think—I think this is me. Was? Is?"

Another flex. Testing. His head slowly cranes up and he stares at her imploringly, his expression bewildered.

"Does that… does that sound weird to you? I remember, but I don't remember at the same time. It's like—it's almost like it's this, this _thing_ it's sitting right in front of me, just sitting there, but it's invisible. But I know it's there because I saw this tiny glimpse of it, just for a second, like it's shining in the sun, and then _bam_, it's gone again, but no one else can see it because it's invisible. But not to me. Not… entirely."

He pauses for a moment before an awkward, coughing laugh wells up out of his throat.

"Ha, you know, I must sound completely mental right now. Really. Remembering and not remembering and all that. I'm sorry. It just… bothers me. I feel like I should be able to remember, but I can't. Like it's hidden right in front of me and I can't find it."

Chell wonders if this is some sort of side effect of his… well, humanity. He hasn't spoken much of it and she dares not pry, but she assumes he underwent some sort of grizzly transition to appear as the man before her. He hadn't complained of any dreams like this before, but who's to say he's not plagued by them as she is?

She wants to comfort him. She wants to walk up to the side of the bed, slide her fingers into his thick hair, and have his head rest against her, but she doesn't. Can't. Instead, she offers an understanding smile, hoping her body language can convey the rest.

"It just felt like… like this was something I should know." Wheatley strokes his thumb absently across his knee, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. "I should _know_ this. Know her. I should, I really should, but I don't. And that's just… so bloody _frustrating_."

In the soft darkness, Chell can see his fists curl and knobby fingers dig into the meat of his thighs. Worry lines furrow along his brow and his jaw has set just so, jutting slightly, the hollows of his face basking in shadow.

"There's something I'm not getting." He's begun to hunch forward and his arms have crossed themselves along his belly as though the stuff inside of him wanted to come spilling out. "Always the moron, aren't I," he says. "Never clever enough to solve anything. Not even my own test."

_No, no,_ she wants to say, but her parted mouth pours out silence and her hand reaches out for—for _what_?—god, she doesn't know, but it's outstretched and palm to the ceiling, pleading softly, _There is not Here; we're gone_.

Wheatley's gaze has pried itself from the sheets. There's a moment—no, not even a moment; a fraction—where she can glimpse into the man who became the monster of her nightmares.

The coldness. The frustration. The anger. Laced into calculating focus, he's staring at her, at her hand, as if she's cradling the answer there but refuses to relinquish it. It's paralyzing and it trickles a chill down the contour of her spine.

And then, as if there is a hammer of clarity bludgeoning him in the back of his skull, he softens: shoulders slump, tension uncoils, fingers loosen.

There's an uncomfortable, vulnerable tightness buried in her chest. It's climbing up her throat with needles.

"Maybe," he murmurs, "it's because of what happened. I don't… I don't quite know all of it. But there's more to all of what I am right now, isn't there? There has to be. There's something, I know there is. And it's missing."

Chell's hand has begun to tremble. She should pull it back, but she doesn't. His has risen from his lap.

"Sometimes," he says, "I think I have dreams about the missing. Like Lottie. Like the piano. But they always disappear before I'm awake."

Words are filling her mouth, brimming, swelling, but they're snagged between her teeth. His fingers graze the pads of hers and the warmth ignites her nerves.

"I didn't think I had room in me to hate."

Wheatley is working himself closer along the mattress, his feet settling into the bunched up blankets. His mouth has thinned and his eyes are locked onto the enigma of her hand.

"Humans have so much to feel, so bloody much, so much it's enough to make me think I've gone crazy. I can feel happiness and worry and sadness and joy and it's so brilliant I could—well, cry. And if there's so much to feel, why hate? I mean, you know, why waste myself on something that won't do anyone any good? Seems pointless. Completely pointless. Stupid, even."

Chell can feel herself shaking again. The coiled knot has traversed her breastbone, her neck, and has made its home in the back of her mouth. The cold floor has seeped into the soles of her feet and is draining the strength from her legs. And his hand, bony and thin, a burning coal, has slowly curled into her palm.

"But I find myself hating that place. Being afraid. Thinking about it and how truly awful it really was. And seeing what it's done to you, I can't imagine what it's done to others. What She's done. What that whole place has done."

He's squeezing now. Enveloping and warm and trying to press the fact that he knows, he really does, he's sorry, he's so sorry and if he could purge everything and make it right he would; and she squeezes back. Hard.

"But I suppose I should be thankful, in a way. It brought me here. Away. I'm still alive somehow. Breathing, slightly less metal. More fleshy. And I'm… I'm all right with that."

She catches the glint of his eyes in the darkness and absently wonders if you can drown in a color. Or a feeling. Or words. She desperately wants to pull them out and say _I understand, I know, I'm sorry_, but her jaw is clenched so tightly it's beginning to hurt.

Wheatley has leaned in close. The subtle scent of his shampoo wraps itself around her neck and she brings it greedily into the spaces of her lungs.

"Are you all right?" His voice is so soft, so quiet; if she held it in her palms she could shred it like paper.

_No,_ she doesn't say with the voice she doesn't quite have, _No, I'm not, I don't know what's happening anymore_; but her head nods, _Yes, I'll be fine_, and with the musk of his scent filling her nose and the heat of his hand in hers, she brings herself into him and buries her head into the hollowed place by his collarbone.

His chest seizes up in a hitched inhale like this is the last thing he expected, but he brings his other arm around the small of her back, hooking there, safe, and she can feel the warmth of his leg shifting to rest by her side. Recovering nicely, steady breaths now, his head lolls against hers; a comforting, heavy weight. Somehow their fingers have become entwined in the midst of this, but she continues to squeeze with a fierce strength, and he meets it firmly.

Wheatley is very much a victim, she realizes. To what extent, she doesn't know. Perhaps more, or perhaps less than what she's imagined. But regardless—he shares in this nightmare.

"Sorry. Again." His voice has dropped low and it's so hard to hear. "That was a whole lot of nonsense there. I'm tired and… well, a bit fuzzy. Not thinking straight."

Chell shakes her head against him, dismissive, nose against the plaid of his shirt. His heart pumps below her ear.

"No, I mean it. I do. It's not proper conversation. Really, who talks about this sort of thing in the dead of night?"

_Us_, she doesn't say. Is that good or bad? Do friends do this?

Wheatley struggles with a yawn and pulls away. She's forced to draw back from the heat and the crook of his neck, but his hand is still clasped with hers, tight and hot and trembling.

"But I've got this feeling, you know. Maybe it's just because I'm hopeful, but I think we'll be okay. It's over now, isn't it? It's over. It's gone, done, in the past. And we're fine. Well… mostly."

She's staring at him, so close, chest pounding, pinned in place by his eyes, and all of the adrenal vapor in the world couldn't make her feel more alive.

"Your dreams must be worse than mine." Something pulls down at the corners of his mouth and fatigue paints shadowed half-moons under his eyes. "I'm sorry."

If she could just say something, anything, he would know that he doesn't have to tell her that anymore, but she can't. She can only grip his hand, vainly work the muscles in her throat, and block out the monsters crawling beneath her skull.

"So," he says, "not to ruin this, whatever this is, but… did you need help with those? I saw you with them, but I didn't want to ask."

Not completely parsing his question, she turns and looks down to find the linens and the towel in a heap on the floor.

Oh. So that's where they went. Huh.

Chell's fingers unlace from his. There is reluctance and longing embedded in fingerprints. Her hand tingles, prickling, as if it had fallen asleep. (If only she could.)

She kicks the towel up with her foot and catches it in her arms. Then, bending down, she scoops up the rest. Her face is beginning to burn, wildfires under her skin, and she squeezes her eyes shut because she can't look at him anymore. Somewhere in her ribcage something starts to churn and she wants nothing more than to dart out of the room and bury herself under the sheets and stay there until the sun rises and maybe even a few days after.

"So is that a no? Or a yes? Because whatever it is, it's fine. Just wanted to know, that's all."

She's waving her free hand wildly behind her as she whisks away. The linen tucked in her arm, she bolts of his room, beyond the doorway, down the hall, and there's a whirlwind behind her breastbone and she doesn't know how it got there but it's trying to burst through. The pads of her feet are pushing into the chilled woodwork of the floor as she enters the haven of her bedroom, and with a quick knock of her elbow, the door shuts behind her, _click_, safety, serenity.

Paleness and moonlight greet her. The companion cube sits near the window, the bureau sleeps by its side, and the bed is pressed against the wall.

Quivering. Deep breaths. Easy, now.

Chell undresses the mattress. Pulling sheets, she tosses them into the middle of the room. Off come the pillowcases and on to the pile. It's methodical and something she can focus on. She has to focus on something. Anything. Her mind is a hurricane and he's in the center of it.

God. She doesn't even know what that means.

When the bed is made and the anxiety is a smaller knot, she finds herself standing by the strewn heap of linen on the carpet, unable to climb into her work.

She doesn't want to dream again. If she could cram all the nightmares she's had and ever will have into a jar and throw it out in the lake, drowning them, suffocating them, she would.

But she can't.

If she has to dream, why can't it be about the present?

Why does it have to be about the past?

_Why?_

She rolls out the towel, kneels beside the sheets, and crosses her legs. The carpet is soft under her fingers and she slides them through the material as she leans back, shifting weight onto her arms. The ceiling stares at her, blank, a dark canvas, and she wishes she could find it in her to fill it with things that would remind her less of that place.

Breathing slowly, drawing in each inhale, Chell begins to tap the rug with one flattened hand. It's not a metronome, but it's a rhythm.

The muscles in her throat contract and tighten, fighting, resisting. Pain wells in her diaphragm. There is no hum, no voice, but there is a wispy flow of air.

_"But I've got this feeling, you know. Maybe it's just because I'm hopeful, but I think we'll be okay."_

It grows, burning, pouring out her lungs and through her nose.

_"We'll be okay."_

The words are twisted around her tongue and won't come out. She's trying so hard, insides tensing, hand tapping, mind swirling, but there's nothing.

_We'll be okay,_ she doesn't say.

And that's a start.


	13. The Lock

Wheatley is convinced that there's something locked inside him.

The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he is. Sometimes when he's out and about, there are flashes of things he thinks he should remember: a little girl, a piano, a playground, a studio, lab coats, microphones, paperwork. Other times, he wakes up in the middle of the night, moonlight pouring in, and it feels like his skull has been cracked open, spilling rivers of liquid memories across the pillow.

And it's frustrating, maddening, because he can't hold onto a bloody thing. Any glimpses that pop to the forefront of his brain are shoved beneath the surface of his consciousness just as quickly. He can't dredge them up because he has nothing to go on. They just… disappear. Vanish.

On top of this, he has headaches that last for longer than he thinks they should. He hears a distant hum when he's alone and drifting off, whispering in his head. And most worryingly, the jumble of things among his ribs twist and somersault when she's near.

Honestly, it's like humans malfunction more than machines. Who would've thought?

"Wheatley." The sharp snap of Thomas's thumb and forefinger jolts him back to reality. "Are you still with us?"

"Yes, still here, sorry." Scrunching his eyes shut, drowsy, Wheatley rubs at them with the heel of his palm. "Just a bit tired, that's all."

"You're supposed to be sorting." Thomas thumbs his plaid coat's brown lapel as he glances down at the stacks of music cluttering the desk. "I don't believe that's even a quarter finished."

"Well, hey, you know, this sort of thing takes time. You can't just rush perfection. Or… something like that. However that saying goes. I don't actually know. But go on, here." He splays his fingers across the already sorted sheets, pushing them toward the old man. "Have a look."

Thomas pushes his thick spectacles up his nose and peers down at Wheatley's work. He paws through the pages, inspecting their arrangement.

"Looks good so far," he affirms. "Alphabetical order by instrument, yes, good. Ah, starting with Carmen? Good choice."

"Wait, what?" Wheatley drags a page back toward him with a thin finger and flips it around. At the top, printed in bold, capital letters, reads:

**CARMEN**

And just beneath, in smaller, curvier font:

_Prelude_

_Georges BIZET_

_(1838-1875)_

"Oh," says Wheatley. "So it is. Yes, yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?" His eyes glance down at the scores and the flowing notes. Lots of instruments are listed among the lines; violin, flute, bass, various percussion... He supposes this must be a copy that a director would use to keep track of everyone. He rubs a knuckle along his temple in thought. "Um, so, what exactly is this 'Carmen'?"

"Carmen? It's an opera. And a very good opera, at that. An excellent one. Love, grief, jealousy, tragedy all mixed in. One of my favorites, actually." Thomas's mouth dons a withered smile. "After you finish putting that into its proper binder, would you like to hear? Give you a taste of the wonders of music?"

"Oh, yes, that'd be tremendous!" Wheatley replies. "I'm only acquainted with—well, not a lot, if I'm honest. I've heard a bit of Bach, I think. Or was it Beethoven? Pretty sure it was Bach. Some sort of B-starting name or something like that. Lovely music, though. Very… uh, classical. Right. Classical."

The old man's face wrinkles with what Wheatley thinks is skepticism. Or pity. Or maybe a bit of both. He's not buying it.

"… Right." He tries to swallow but a knot has formed in the bottom of his throat. "Okay, well, I'll be here. Sorting. Shouldn't be too much longer. Hopefully. But remember, you can't rush perfection."

"Take your time," says Thomas. "It'll be a minute, anyhow." He thinks he can see Thomas rub his forehead with his palm as he turns away, but he's not positive.

Well. That could have gone better, he thinks. But it could have gone worse. He really shouldn't try to talk musicians to a music buff. Seriously, what kind of idea was that?

Mentally kicking himself, Wheatley continues gathering the remaining music sheets and shuffling them one by one into their appropriate places in the binder. Each instrument's copy is parted by a colored divider and labeled with a small, inserted tab with the respective name scrawled in Wheatley's scraggly script.

As he's sorting the sheets, he pauses briefly to browse through one of the scores. He runs a knobby thumb thoughtfully down the length of the page, letting the notes sink in. There are dozens of them that dot the lines, sweeping across each sheet, ringing a bell somewhere in the deepest chambers of his brain. That flittering familiar feeling ghosts about his head, feathery and light, and he really wishes he knew why.

It's so strange, he thinks, so peculiar, feeling like you should remember something when you can't remember it at all. If only he could better remember his dreams, nightmares, whatever they are, then maybe he could figure out what's locked away. If he could—

_Oh_.

His mind is rewinding to the night before, the dream, the little girl, but that's not what's made his breath snag. The lump in his throat dissolves and there is a sudden pleasurable elation swelling between his lungs and he remembers:

Chell was in his room last night, wasn't she?

Part of him flashes to _Oh, good, looks like I'm malfunctioning again, isn't that lovely_, but another dives into the sensation of how close she was, how warm and soft her hand felt, how _nice_ she smelled, and how much he wanted to hold her to him and never let go and just sink, sink, sink into that blissful haze because he's never felt so wonderful, so peaceful, so right.

And she did that hugging thing again, didn't she?

Yes, god, she did, and it felt good. Incredibly, amazingly good. His nerves start to dance and shivers take root in the base of his spine and curl up his back as he recalls the heat of her tiny hand clasped with his and the press of her cheek against his collarbone. Her closeness, her skin, the warmth of her, everything; he's compelled to immerse himself, to feel and touch and smell and—

Wheatley notices that his heart has begun to pound against his ribs. He brings a hand to his shirt's breast pocket, presses it down, spreading flat, smoothing the powder-blue fabric, and that gentle _thump-thump_ meets him, pulsing steadily beneath his palm.

He wishes he could understand why he's feeling like this. No one else affects him this way. Not Thomas, not people on the street. Just… her. Only her.

And… she's having nightmares, isn't she? That's why she was there. She couldn't sleep.

Something plucks away at the edges of his heart beneath his skin and guilt sluices his thoughts. He doesn't need to ask her what she dreams of. He already knows. Or, well, at least he believes he does. It's not like there's a lot to choose from, honestly. Either it's him or it's Her.

Of course, She was nothing short of a proper maniac. And he… well, he was somewhere far beyond.

Bottomless chasms, clouds of neurotoxin, spiked death machines, explosives. He hunted her, chased her, forced her to test for his own pleasure, and nearly killed her on more than one occasion. And through the gaping void of the portal, with the earth spanning the black horizon and with the face of the moon beneath and the stars bursting so far beyond, he told her to let go.

In that vast emptiness, he told her to let go.

Wheatley has paused between pages. He can't make himself move. It feels like something's pouring down his throat and filling him up with roiling fire, searing straight to the marrow.

He had blamed her. Damned her. Called her terrible things and told her he hated her.

And still, in spite of that, in spite of all the wrong he's done, she held him in the field as he drowned in his own apologies. She took him from There with a hand against his back; she helped him walk down the weathered asphalt, away from the shed and the labyrinth and the horrors toward civilization, toward humanity. She fed him, gave him shelter, kept him warm. She let him into her home.

Wheatley gazes down at his hand. His fingers are elongated and thin, bone pushing up from his knuckles down. His wrist bone juts out awkwardly, and through his paleness, he can see the roping lines of dark veins. He tries to imagine the small frame of her hand fitting through his, her fingers folding between his own, and the thought punctures shame through his chest. It twists in the breathing chambers of his heart and blossoms through webbing arteries, nestling in muscle and unfurling out with every exhale.

God, he thinks. It's a wonder Chell can sleep at all.

Wheatley finds himself leaning against the desk, fists coiled tight. There's a tumult inside of him that he can't control. His eyes burn and there's wetness collecting in the corners.

He's got to make it up to her somehow. He has to. Really, really has to. He's not sure if words can never mend what he's done. Maybe if he can help her speak again, or even if he can't, if he can help her in some other way.

Someday, if he's lucky, she might forgive him.

Wheatley draws in a deep, shaky breath, and tries to find his focus. Now isn't exactly the time for this, is it? Not really the sort of thing to be dwelling on at work. He'll have to talk to her when he gets home. Make her tea (better this time, minus the burning), have another lesson or three so he can hear her voice again, the one private thing she's locked away from the world, and yet… shared with him.

In a way, he's already lucky, isn't he?

Wheatley manages to weld the cracks of his composure. He places the last few copies between the dividers, and then closes the binder. The finishing touch is a large label taped onto the front. A smaller one gets pressed onto the spine. He inscribes each with "BiZEt" in bold, black marker.

"There," he says, admiring his work. "Looks quite good, if I do say so myself. Very proper. Very professional. Neat, tidy, sorted, and labeled. All ready for the shelf."

Pleased, Wheatley straightens himself, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. He cranes his neck to scans the aisles of gleaming instruments in hopes of spotting Thomas, but even with his generous height, the clerk is nowhere to be found.

"Oi, all done now!" calls Wheatley. "Hey, where'd you pop off to?"

"I'm in the back office!" Thomas's voice resonates from within the depths of the shop. "Come along now, it's all set!"

Wheatley pushes the binder to the side of the desk, away from the still-to-be-sorted pile. He strolls down the narrow aisles of boxes, papers, oils, brass, and wood, and as he draws closer to the cozy office at the end, an overture of strings and cymbals crescendos through the parted oak door to meet him.

Interest piqued, he peers inside, forehead resting against the worn jamb. The music is most certainly coming from here, but originating from… well, he's not entirely sure. There's something that looks like a box that's perched on Thomas's desk, nestled between photographs of Lottie. It's covered in buttons and dials of various kinds, and a black disc sits upon it, spinning. Pairs of coupled wires stretch across and connect to two larger boxes placed just behind it that seem to have some sort of fabric down their fonts. Speakers, perhaps?

"A turntable," Thomas supplies, seeming to sense Wheatley's unspoken question. "It's incredibly old, you know. You could search for ages and not find another in as good of a condition as this one. Oh, come on in now, don't just stand there. It's not going to bite."

"It's brilliant," says Wheatley, squeezing his lanky body through the door. He cautiously approaches the turntable and bends down to further inspect it, hands resting on knobby knees. Leaning closer, he notices that the disc is being touched by what appears to be a needle, held in place by a small, arm-like fixture. How strange.

Struck with wonderment, he focuses on the music. He can't hear it all that well; it's a bit soft with murmuring static, but instruments are trilling away in the overture, bright and strong, and he wonders which creates which sound.

"This," he says, now leaning across the desk, ear close to a speaker, "this is 'Carmen'?"

"Yes, it is. I have records of the whole opera," says Thomas. "Both the turntable and the records were my grandfather's. His grandfather before him passed them down through the family."

"Wow. That's an awful lot of grandfathers," says Wheatley.

"It's an awful lot of time," says Thomas. He reaches out with a thick, wrinkled hand and brings it lovingly along the side of the turntable. "This is an antique. Far older than me, or anyone else for that matter."

"Would you show me?" he asks, pulling away from the desk. "How to make this? The music, that is. You said you'd teach me to read it, right?"

"There's a difference between reading music and creating it," says Thomas. "But, from how you played before… Well, I don't think you'll need much teaching. A refresher, maybe. Either you're a genius prodigy who can master an instrument in minutes, or you've played the piano at some point in your life, even if you can't remember it." Thomas arches a bushy eyebrow. "How's that going, by the way? The memory loss. Coping all right? Remembering at all?"

"No. No, not really." Wheatley laces his fingers and begins to hook and stretch them around one another. Cartilage pops between muscle and bone. "Well, okay, sort of. Bits and pieces. Small things. Only pieces, though. Nothing ever complete, you know? Just… things that feel like they're familiar somehow, like I've seen them before. But a whole lot of good that does me. Nothing ever seems to come of it. And it's frustrating. Really, really frustrating. And the worst thing is it's not like I'm forcing myself or anything—just sort of… happens. Willy nilly. For no reason at all."

He chews at the corner of his mouth and his knuckles blanch, fingers pressing together. "I feel… a bit stupid about the whole thing, if I'm honest."

"Hm." Thomas scratches at his chin stubble and his mouth twists oddly. "Well, tell you what, boy. When you start remembering a little more, I'll help you out. And I mean remembering useful things. Places, names, people. Things like that. Things we can work with. We'll see if we can try to figure out what's going on with you."

"Help me out? How're you going to manage that?" Wheatley folds his arms, incredulous, hands resting against his ribs. "Well, not that I'm ungrateful or anything, because I'm not. Ungrateful, that is. I do appreciate the offer, I really do, don't get me wrong, but I mean, honestly, I can barely help myself most of the time. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't—" He pauses, mouth open, jaw set. _Wheatley, shut up, shut up._ He pinches the skin on his sides to stop himself. The music continues to fill the air and it pulls through his eardrums. "Uh, never mind. I don't… really know where I was going with that."

"I wasn't always the owner of a music shop, you know." Thomas lifts the arm-and-needle from the disc and the overture comes to an abrupt end. "I went to school for a while. This was after everything settled, of course. Traveled around, learned a lot. The mind is a curious thing. Very complex. No one fully understands what makes us tick."

The record slowly spins to a halt. Thomas reaches out, lifts it by the edges, and flips it over. After fitting it back onto the turntable, he lifts the needle over the disc and gently sets it down. Another song begins to play.

It's slower paced, but there is strength in the sound, in the drums, in the melody. He can hear all sorts of instruments harmonizing together, a symphony, and he feels this overwhelming sense of _I want to do this how do I start_ and his fingers are flexing, itching to knock down on ivory keys, and he finds himself staring absently at the record as it revolves endlessly upon the turntable.

"But let's just say," continues Thomas, "that I've got a… well, a contact, of sorts. He has an almost obsessive interest in history. If anyone could help you here, it'd be him." He brings his hand to the side of his mouth and leans toward Wheatley. "But between you and me and the wall, he's a… very paranoid fellow. That's putting it lightly. He picks up on anything. And I do mean anything. If it's something that happened, you can bet he's got a record of it." He glances around the office, among the pictures and the coatrack and the tucked periwinkle curtains. A hoarse chuckle rocks his small frame. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's got the place bugged somehow."

"Shouldn't we be worried then?" asks Wheatley, tearing his gaze away from the spinning disc. It's more difficult than it seems. The opening of the song has softened and a man's vibrant voice has now joined the fray, hanging onto the notes and drawing them out, complementing the sawing strings and plucking bass.

"Oh, no, no, not at all." Thomas's hands settle into his blazer's pockets and his posture relaxes, shoulders slouching. "He's a harmless man. Even if he had cause to hurt anyone, he wouldn't seek them out. He keeps to himself. Not exactly the go-getter type."

"But you're saying he could help? I mean, he could find out who I am and what happened to me?" Wheatley doesn't want to get his hopes up because his luck really isn't the greatest considering all of what's happened, but god, if he can somehow figure out what's locked inside of him, he—he doesn't know. He's not sure how he would react. Should react. What if it's something horrible? What if it's something wondrous? What if it's earth-shattering? What if she hates it? What if she loves it? _What if what if what if—?_

"It's a possibility." Thomas shrugs, craggy forehead furrowed. "No guarantee, mind you. But if you've got any memories from the past in that head of yours, we could put them to good use."

The music is quieter now, smoothing out after a mighty crescendo, and the man is singing heartily in some other language, elegant and lovely and flowing like ribbons, wrapping around and shaping words Wheatley can't understand.

"Well… I suppose it's worth a try, isn't it?" he says. "Not like just standing around doing nothing's going to help. Can't rightly expect everything to fall into place by itself."

_Ahhh, tor-é-ador, en gard-e!_ sings the man. He seems to echo inside of the room, his voice vying for purchase among the strings and woodwinds, _Tor-é-ador! Tor-é-ado-o-r!_

"People, people, people. Hm." Wheatley runs his hand through his disheveled hair, scratching along his scalp. "You know… What if, hypothetically, just hypothetically mind you, I said that that girl in all those pictures looked familiar. Not _oh, look, I remember her_, but more of a _well I think I might've known her but she doesn't really look the same_ kind of thing. What would we do then? Go see your—erm, contact?"

_Tor-é-ador,_ he sings, resonating, something Wheatley can feel in his diaphragm, _l'amour, l'amour t'attend!_

The wrinkles in Thomas's face have softened. His mouth is a thin line and his hazel eyes are locked onto something far beyond the office, as if he can see through the walls and into the streets and even into the wheat fields past the city limits. Wheatley notices that he's straightened himself, arms brought in close, hands still tucked away in pockets.

A chorus has joined the opera singer, chanting _Toréador! Toréador!_ in all matching octaves, spinning words together with trying lungs, and the song seems to burst with power.

"Do you?" asks Thomas.

"What?"

"Do you remember her?"

"Okay, now, look," says Wheatley, "I said this was hypothetical—I did say that, right? Pretty sure I did—but I just wanted to know what would happen if I remembered someth—"

"Do you _remember_ her?"

Wheatley is stunned by sharpness and force in his voice. He stands there, frozen, staring at the stocky man, pinned in place under Thomas's fierce gaze. His palms are slick and the music seems to push into every pore. He's not sure what to do, what to say; his throat feels like it's closing up and he wants to throw himself out the door because he's really done it now, hasn't he?

_Tout d'un coup, on fait silence,_ calls the singer; he's alone once more, commanding the scene, _On fait silence… ah! Que se passe-t-il?_

"I need to know. Because what you're saying—it isn't possible. It isn't."

Thomas reaches out and snatches one of the photographs on his desk by the turntable. He lightly touches the surface, running a thick finger along the wood frame, and then turns it for Wheatley to see. Lottie, cheery and graying, grins at him from behind the glass.

"You mean to tell me that you knew her? This woman right here? You _knew_ her?"

Wheatley's wringing his hands, helpless, his stomach a souring pit. "I—I don't know. I-I really don't. I'm not sure, I'm sorry, she looks different than what I'm remembering. She's not—um—what I mean to say is she's not… not old. Like that."

"Then here?" Thomas pivots on his dress shoes and swipes a frame from the wall near the coatrack. It's the one Wheatley paused on before; Lottie is young and vibrant and freckled and holding a violin by her chin with a curled arm.

"No," he says, "no, not like that, either. She's… she's young. Little. So very small. A child."

"What?" Everything drains from Thomas's face.

"See what I mean? I can't make sense of it. She looks familiar but she's different. Just—her face, the dots, her eyes, her hair, it's all the same. She's just small. Smaller. A tiny thing. I saw her with me. Me and her and a piano. It's all blurry though, sort of like I forgot my glasses in my dream, but it's there, and it keeps coming back. It was there when I woke up in the fiel—" _Shut up, shut up, shut up! What are you _doing_, you moron?_

The heels of Wheatley's palms are pressing against his temples and he's hunched over, trembling, and his head is starting to hurt again, sharp and throbbing and—

"How is that even possible?" Thomas sounds far away, muffled, like Wheatley's being pulled under the world and the water is filling his ears, his throat, his head.

"I don't… I don't know." The floor is starting to move. Is he getting dizzy?

_C'est ton tour maintenant! Allons! En garde! Allons! All—_

The music halts, punctuated with a piercing scratch. Silence permeates the air, thick and full, overflowing his lungs.

"Wheatley," says Thomas. "Where did you come from?"

_I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't—_

"I want to know," he says. The muscles in his neck are constricting and the tendons pop out with each hard swallow. Words fall out of his mouth in waterfalls. "I wish I did, I really do, then all of this wouldn't be happening, but I don't. I don't remember. I don't. I don't know, I'm sorry, I don't know."

He can hear Thomas shift. His black shoes scuff softly along the tile as he draws close. As the old man pauses, Wheatley can pick up the quiet tinkling of the clerk's spectacles being removed. There's a shuffling; the crimson end of his tie cleaning them, caught in the corner of Wheatley's eye.

A rough hand is placed on his back. It pats twice, short and hearty, anchoring him to reality. It's not unkind.

"Well. It looks like you and I will be paying dear Daniel a visit in the near future, then." Thomas pushes his glasses up his wide nose. "Amnesia is a tricky thing. I want this to be a mistake, but somehow, I don't think it is. And I don't think you ending up here is one, either."

Wheatley rubs wearily at his face, fingers pulling down eyelids under glasses and skin over gaunt cheekbones. It feels like there's a pressure building behind his forehead, swelling and aching, and he wishes it would just disappear like the rest of his memories. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean," he groans.

"Don't think too much on it. Just focus on whatever you can remember. It might be helpful." Thomas flits away to gingerly lift the record off of the turntable. "I'll go out and talk to him this evening. He'll want to know in advance if he's going to have guests."

"What's going to happen when I'm there?" asks Wheatley.

"Questions, I imagine. He loves his questions. He might do some searching. He's got all sorts of things in that shack." Thomas flips the record about between his hands, mouth pursed in thought. "Who knows. He might be able to dig up something."

Hand cradling his head, he glances up at Thomas. "Nothing that's going to hurt, right?"

"Hurt? What?" Thomas shakes his head and slips the record into its sleeve. "No. No, no. Nothing like that. Why would you think it would?"

Wheatley wants to believe Thomas, he really does, but the fear of pain is whispering up his spine. He doesn't want it to hurt. He doesn't want it to be like what She did. He doesn't want it to be like that afternoon in the wheat field, bathing in the aftermath of The Transfer.

He's sure She did everything in her power to make sure it hurt.

"Just…" He gently bites his tongue as he straightens himself, teeth sinking down. He can't talk about Her or the things She did or about those godforsaken halls beneath that shed. He doesn't want to go back. He would rather die than go back. "I'm not fond of pain, really. Not a pleasant thing. Just would rather, you know, avoid it. That's all."

"It'll be fine. Promise you. Don't worry." Thomas pads close to him and folds his arms behind his back. He cranes his neck, jowls stretching, to meet Wheatley's gaze. "And I'm sorry for snapping at you," he says. "I wasn't so short tempered with my clients way back when. She just brings out the worst in me."

Wheatley palms his right temple, hoping the pressure will lessen. "Clients? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, to keep a long story short, I once studied psychology," says Thomas. "Thought I could be of help to people. Try to heal them after all that happened. That stint was short-lived, though. Couldn't keep it up."

Something strikes a chord in Wheatley's heart like hammers knocking on strings and it _resonates_. "You wanted to heal people?"

"You don't believe me?" He chuckles. It's gravelly, like there's something cinched around his voice. "I don't blame you. Doesn't seem to fit, does it? No, calm down, I'm not angry. I agree. I quit for a reason."

There's that feeling. Close, fluttering, almost palpable, edging just on the outside of his consciousness.

Wheatley leans down and stares at Thomas, his fists clenched, jaw rigid. "You've got to tell me," he says. "About the healing. About what you did. About the—you know. People. Now. Please? If you would? Something's just—going about, ticking away in the back of my head, and—and I think it's about this. It's driving me mad, it really is, and I _want_ to remember, I want to, I really do, but it's like it's… locked away. Buried. So far down."

"Wheatley." Thomas's voice is stern, even, commanding, and he places his hands on Wheatley's shoulders. His grip is grounding. "I'm an old man. I've seen a lot of things in life. I don't know what happened to you or what kind of trauma you suffered to make you lose your memory, but I think you're trying to tackle something you're not ready for."

Wheatley's teeth are clenched and there's tension coiling up in his limbs. He's focused on the desk at the edge of his vision because he can't make himself face the old clerk. "I know, but—"

"This will take time. It's not something you can force. Understand?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then it's settled."

"What?"

"Right now," says Thomas, "all you need is routine. Routine will help. We'll get you to learn some new things to help you along. Refresh you on some music, get you playing. I'll sit down with you at the piano this afternoon."

"All right… Okay, well, if—if you think it'll help, let's routine. Routine away. Ready for routine." Wheatley runs a hand through his mess of hair and a trembling chuckle wells up out of his chest. "You know, I don't think I ever thanked you, did I? For anything. Or the metronome. I don't remember. If I didn't, well, here it is: Thank you. I mean it. I really do. You've been a tremendous help. And I'm not just saying that, either. You've really, _really_ been amazing."

Thomas finally lets go. Stepping backward, he sighs and rests his hands in his blazer pockets once more. "I'll talk to Daniel," he says. "I'm sure he'll want to meet, but I don't know when. He's very finicky. Talks about the moon too much. He'll probably look at his maps and consult the stars to pick a perfect date."

Wheatley glances at the photographs that frame the turntable. "Will you… will you ever tell me about her? About Lottie?"

There is a few moments' pause. Thomas's bushy brows knit and he swallows thickly. "Not yet," he says. "I want to see if there's a connection first. I'll gladly tell you about my studies in psychology, though. It's not a very long story, but you wanted to hear, and it's been a while since I've visited those memories."

"After sorting, though? Or could it be sooner? I'd—sorry, I'd just really like to know. Don't mean to sound bossy or anything. If it did. I didn't mean that way. Sorry."

"Well, if you want," says Thomas, padding toward the office door, "I could tell you while you finish up the stack. I have some paperwork to fill out, anyhow. Ordering reeds. Strings. Tedious stuff."

Wheatley starts to follow, but the image of Chell surfaces in the forefront of his mind. "Oh! Sorry, just a second—I've got a quick question, if you don't mind?"

Thomas leans against the doorjamb. "What is it?"

"I want to… thank someone. A friend." He's starting to grin as he thinks of her and he doesn't even care that his pulse is stirring up again. "She's been amazing as well, but I've… well, not been so amazing. Long story. But I'd like to, you know, make it up to her. Say I'm sorry, but not really say it because it's not enough. I don't know how to go about it or… what to do for her. And let's be honest: I'm not exactly the best person in the world to go thinking up grand things."

"I wouldn't sell yourself short." The old clerk scratches along his scalp as if in thought. Gray hair bunches and twists where his fingers pull. "But you know, I might have a few ideas rolling about."

Elation pushes between Wheatley's lungs. Maybe he can finally thank her properly for all she's done. "Brilliant! What kinds of ideas? What are they?"

Thomas's mouth pulls at the corners in a cheeky grin. "Wheatley, how comfortable do you think you'd be playing piano for, let's say, an audience?"


	14. The Name

Chell remembers the first time he said her name.

It's not back There. It's not when he's trying to break her out and the both of them are scrambling along corroded, rusting catwalks in the backend of the facility. It's not when he's consumed by The Itch and coercing her to test, hunting her through the chambers. It's not when she's looking at the moon when the ceiling's fallen through, portal gun in hand.

No. It's not in the cold horrors of that place.

Stairs are hard for him to climb. She lives on the second floor and there are two small flights to conquer. Wheatley is barefoot, hobbling, skin and bones, an Aperture jumpsuit covering his malnourished body. He's leaning on her for support, thin hand clasped on the knob of her shoulder.

One step at a time. He lifts his legs, shaking. His toes are spread apart as he ascends each stair, dirt pushed under the nails. As he shifts his weight down, he sucks air between his teeth, as if he's in a great deal of pain. It wouldn't surprise her; they've walked five miles. He'll have blisters at the very least.

As he crests the first flight, he stops, pulling her back.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "Just need—need a short rest. Few seconds."

It's not the first time he's stopped her. Walking down the eroding road, he would often squeeze her shoulder and wordlessly ask for a sit down. And they would, kneeling at the edge of the asphalt's gravel shoulder, the cool wind biting their cheeks. Wheatley would soak in the world and recover from the exertion in his atrophied muscles, and the two of them would sit there together in silence.

And that's the strangest thing of all, she thinks. He's barely spoken the whole journey. After they emerged from the wheat field with apologies running down his mouth, he's not said a word. No commentary on their surroundings, no rambling stories, no halfhearted jokes to ease the mood. Nothing. Not a single thing.

Until now.

"All right," he says. "Right, I'm good now. I'm good."

She increases the pressure on his back to help him forward. The weight of his towering body eases onto her shoulders again and they begin to climb the second flight.

Chell hasn't communicated where she's brought him. She hadn't exactly had the forethought to bring a pen and notepad with her when she returned to the shed. Only so much can be said with simple gestures and body language, and it's a bit complicated to get "I'm bringing you home; don't mess anything up and don't make me regret it" across.

He's put his trust in her. Fully. She could have brought him anywhere. She could have turned him in to the police, a homeless shelter, or left him on the outskirts of town. But instead, she's helping him up the stairs to her apartment, her home, the place where she's lived for the past year, the place where she sleeps, where the monsters of her nightmares visit each night. Where _he_ visits each night.

There's a war waging inside of her. It's fierce, fiery, unending, and it's slumbered for months under her skin. With him beside her and under her arm, it's reawakened, revived, vying for attention.

There's _What are you doing, he tried to KILL YOU_, and then there's _That wasn't the real him, he tried to HELP_; countless conversations, strings of arguments, fragments of things that happened. Her mind is a mess and there's a tightness inside of her, coiling up, nesting in the hollow of her chest. It's ready to spring. If fight or flight triggers again, by god, she's going to _fight_, and she'll win.

Chell and Wheatley stop at her door. A bronze 208 hangs on its front, just above the peephole. She digs in her coat pocket for the key, and when her fingers wrap around it, she goes to unlock the deadbolt. Before she does, she feels him squeeze her shoulder again.

"I—I'm assuming y-you live here."

She pauses, looks up, and she's met with brilliant blue eyes. No matter how many times she sees them, she can't help but feel like there's something puncturing her heart.

Slowly, she nods.

Wheatley is biting his lower lip, teeth sinking into chapped skin. His brow is tightly knit with what looks like agony and there's a soft wetness in the corners of his eyes. His grip on her is painful, but she ignores it.

"You… you don't have to," he says. "Bring me here. You know, to where you live. I don't deserve it. And I-I know this is all out of the blue, showing up out of nowhere after… well, I don't know how long. But after all that's happened, I-I don't expect you to—"

Chell gives him a rough pat in the small of his back to quiet him. Honestly, it's a wonder she forgot how incessant he can be. The journey to civilization must have made her too comfortable with his silence.

Ignoring Wheatley's soft whimper, she unlocks the door, turns the knob, and leads him inside with her palm pressing against his spine. The warm air reaches out and envelops her like a mask; it's a wonderful relief from the drafty stairwell and the bitter November cold outside.

After she shuffles him inside, she closes the door behind her, and then situates him so he can lean against it. Taking off her coat, she pops it onto the coatrack to the right. She notices that Wheatley's eyes are darting about, processing his new environment: to the left, the kitchen; to the right, the living room. There's a small table by the window with the essential kitchen appliances, and then a coffee table and sofa and a plush rug and a compact space heater. Books are strewn about.

"Cozy," he remarks. "You know, I… I don't think I've ever been so glad to be inside."

Chell curls her arm around his back once more and helps him hobble to the kitchen. His forearm feels so cold around the back of her neck.

She pulls out a chair for him at the table. He has some trouble bending, but she steels herself and bears the brunt of his weight as he hooks his arms around her and lowers himself down.

Once he's safely put, she whisks away to the cupboards and drawers. Gesturing isn't going to help her have an in depth conversation with this—this man? God, that's so bizarre to think about—and neither is body language, so she's going to need something to write on. She opens several drawers and looks through a few cupboards, and eventually, she finds a pen and a small, white-papered notepad.

Chell approaches him with both in hand. As she pulls out the second chair across from him and settles in, she can't help but notice just how ungodly thin he is. Gaunt cheekbones, gentle hollows in his face, long arms with soft, sand-colored hairs, jutting wrist bones… She's not sure how he came to be this way or what might've happened, but she's positive that this body, his or not, must have been in stasis for a very, very long time. Perhaps even longer than she first imagined.

"So," he says. "What now?"

Chell finds herself agreeing. That's a great question. What now? What happens now?

Honestly, she has no idea. Five miles traveled, four hours spent, and here she is without a plan or course of action. And that's terrifying. The utter shock from the wheat field has worn off and now there's so much that's rushing through her head it scarcely feels like her skull can contain it. If she wrote all of it down at once, her hand would hurt. She would be writing for days. Weeks. Months. Maybe years. She doesn't know. All she knows is that her thoughts are a storm, emotion webbing like lightning, anger cracking like thunder.

The pen presses to paper.

"_I don't know how you're here. We need to talk. I have questions._"

She appraises what she's written. It doesn't feel like it's enough. There should be more, pages upon pages of thoughts, feelings, wishes, fears, pangs of regret, but there are only three sentences, only three, and the pen is trembling in the grip of her hand.

It's good enough. It has to be. For now.

Turning the notepad around, she slides it across the table.

Wheatley swallows, adam's apple bobbing down his neck. His breathing is erratic. He glances to her, to the notepad, and then pulls it closer with shaky fingers.

"All right," he says after a moment. "All right. Questions. Right. Okay. What sort of questions? I mean, I'll—well, I'll answer. I'll answer what I can. It just feels like… like there's a lot missing. If that makes any sense. I hope you understand. It's weird. Difficult to explain. But no, go ahead. Ask. I'll… I'll answer."

Bringing the notepad across again, she picks up the pen and writes.

"_What happened?_"

There's so much she could—_should_—put down on that sheet of paper, but that's all she can think to write. Her mind is so full, full to bursting, full with _He tried to kill you_ and _He tried to help_ and _How is this even possible?_

What happened. Just… what happened. Her hand is failing her. She's lost count of how many times she's practiced what to say when she's been too focused on the past, but all of that has been wiped away, erased, as if someone has taken a cloth to her brain and scoured it blank. Frustrated with herself, she shoves the notepad back at him.

Wheatley flinches as it slides to a stop by his hand. Tentatively, he reaches out and takes it, flipping it around. His eyes flick across the page and center in on her only question.

"I… I'm not sure I understand. Everything? From start to finish? Or just… what happened with Her body. The Lair. The moon. Or why I'm—well. Why I'm not a core anymore."

She only nods. She wants to know it all. Everything. She wants to soak it up, absorb it, use it as ammunition against the creatures that haunt her in darkness.

Wheatley's eyes scrunch shut and his brow knits. "Right. Guess the beginning then. Okay. I'll give it a go."

There's a gap in his memory. From what he can remember, he simply… came into being. It's when the facility was still alive, still breathing. It was when scientists and employees still walked the halls. Assigned a job, he did his duty and tended to the thousands of test subjects in stasis. Mostly a checking of vitals. If anything seemed off, he was to report it to management.

And then She was switched on. He's not sure entirely when it happened, but She drowned the place in neurotoxin and people perished. He remembers searching through the catwalks and employee labs along his management rail: the toxin flowed through the ventilation systems, pumping into every room, every nook, every cranny. Every employee died.

Of course, there was a short period of time where the facility was fully functioning without people. She ran everything. Didn't need humans to manage Her work. He's not sure what sorts of things happened as he had retreated to the Relaxation Center as per his directive. Testing, he supposes. But then a human—_her_—managed to kill Her.

After the explosion that marked Her death, the facility began to deteriorate. Power sources failed. Plants invaded. Windows cracked, rubbish built up, and with no one to maintain it, it became a shadow of its former self.

It began to fall apart. To self-destruct.

It was then that his self-preservation kicked in. Some sort of latent subroutines that surfaced, he thinks. There was no way he could hope to salvage the facility; he was only one little robot, just one in a place that stretched for miles and miles without end. He needed help.

And so he found her, alone, sleeping amongst the dead. She was between the hundreds, the thousands; one cryo-unit box patched into the reserve power grid.

A miracle.

"I just… I knew I had to get out. I don't know why." Wheatley is examining his hands as he speaks. He seems so fascinated, so confused, flexing fingers and watching the knuckles protrude and depress. "I saw the whole place falling apart. People dying. Things shutting down, going on the blink. Years went by. _Years_. Years of watching it all rot. I had to leave. _Had_ to. It was a feeling. Well, not really a feeling, being a robot and all. A simulated one. Or whatever it was in my programming that allowed feelings. I don't know. You understand."

Wheatley draws a breath, and there is tense, palpable silence as she processes what he's said. Vivid orange peers out at her through the dirt and filth of his jumpsuit. It pulls her mind into darker places, pulling her into the final chamber, The Lair, supine and trembling, the moon a glowing quarter in the fresh night's sky.

She closes her eyes and the image of the portal gun on her arm, poised upward, burns under her eyelids.

Chell breathes and writes, "_Her body._"

There is a visible shudder that climbs through him when he reads her prompt. His mouth twists into a grimace, his eyes focus on the paper, and his fingers curl inward into blanching fists. Regret is there. Shame is there. He's remembering what happened and she can see it sink its claws into his flesh and pull.

"I'm being honest," he says. "I don't know."

There is a pause, silence, waiting, and she's not sure what to do with herself.

The notepad makes another trip about the table.

"_What do you mean?_"

Wheatley's jaw is set. He still won't look at her.

"She was popped out, I was swapped in. I had control. I called the lift for you. I wanted us to leave, it's what I meant, and then just—something. _Something_ happened. I don't know what it was. It was like it was talking, talking away in the back of my mind. Whispering. I could hear it and it told me about all of the things I could do if I stayed. If I stayed in that body. The things I could accomplish. It felt amazing to not be so… so small and insignificant. After so long, always being the little guy, always the moron, the bloke no one ever wanted to talk to, I just… I _listened_."

Chell remembers being smashed into the elevator, being thrust down deep into the belly of Aperture. She remembers having to traverse the sealed off chambers, the oldest tests, having to chase time to get back to the surface. She remembers the tremors, the quakes, the disintegration, the fire. It's all very clear, etched into the undersides of her eyelids.

"And then The Itch."

Wheatley squirms in his chair and she feels his legs shift and twist below the table. He brings his shoulders up and he hunches forward as though he's become ill. Jumpsuit bunched up in the bends of his arms, his hands are clasped over his stomach, just beneath the ends of his ribs.

"I've never felt anything like it before," he murmurs. "I couldn't _control_ it. It was constantly there, _you've got to test, make her test_, and I—I had to. Didn't have a choice. It was like it was eating me. Eating. Eating from the inside out. And to make it stop, someone had to test."

He grits his teeth and his fingers are locked in with one another, pushing, pressing, anxiety eating away at the bone.

"But I _did_ have a choice. I did. I know that. I just wasn't… I wasn't meant for it. Being in Her body. I didn't have it in me to resist. I couldn't fight or… ignore the whispers. Couldn't get us out. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't bloody strong enough. God, I don't know how She did it. Or maybe She didn't. Maybe that's what made Her the maniac She is. Maybe that's why She went mental and killed everyone."

Chell stares at him, unable to move, think, write. There is anger roiling inside of her, burning through veins, arteries, capillaries. She presses the tip of the pen into the paper and finally writes, "_ 'This is the part where I kill you.'_ "

Wheatley reaches out for the notepad with a bony hand and slides it back toward him. As he reads, blue eyes wide, the redness from the cold in his cheeks drains into a pallid white. He leans forward again, trying to curl in on himself; he's holding his face in his hands, shivering—crying?

"I was mad. Completely and absolutely mad. I can't—god, I can't explain what it was like. It was just… talking. Talking through me. It used what I wanted, the not being a moron, and it just… it smothered the good. All I meant to do. Escaping, freeing you, everything. Snuffed it out like it never existed. All those horrible things I said, the monstrous things I did, I… I never would have done it. I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to _leave_."

He pulls down the slope of his gaunt face, thumbs along sharp cheekbones. The violent blue of his eyes locks onto her, chilling, spearing, pervading through her inner darkness.

"You don't believe me." His voice has succumbed to a trembling timbre. Thin, threadbare; a fragile thing. "Do you?"

Chell stays very still. Hands pressed to the table, she stares at him, stares _through_ him, her gaze fixed on the blank white of the kitchen wall. Blots of black skirt around the edges of her vision; shadows, monsters, nightmares. Her stomach is being twisted, squeezed, wrung out, and she suppresses the urge to crack him in the jaw.

There is no reason why she should believe him. No reason at all. He could be lying. He could be an agent for Her, stuffed into a human body and sent to the surface to somehow convince her to Return. After all, as her instincts keep reminding her so continuously, heart drumming against her ribs, he tried to _kill_ her.

She won't satisfy him with an answer. No. Not yet.

"_This body,_" she writes. The inked tip pierces the paper on the last stretch of the Y.

As Wheatley reads, he looks like he's starting to break down. His fingers are curled in toward his palms, quivering, his shoulders brought in, and his eyes—

God. She wishes she couldn't see his eyes.

"Her," he breathes. It's so quiet, so small, barely whispering out of his throat. "It was Her work. This was. All of this. I never wanted it. To be like this. I—I liked being a robot. I did. It was grand. Automated. Brilliant and simple. But she went and… powered me down. Afterward. After everything. I don't know for how long. It feels like the moon was yesterday. But it wasn't yesterday. Was it?"

Chell tries to focus on breathing. She writes, "_One year ago, today._"

There must be some sort of humor in this. Maybe She counted on Chell's sentimentality for what happened. Maybe that's why she found Wheatley regurgitated on Aperture's doorstep on their anniversary.

Or, perhaps it's all coincidence. It's possible that She just happened to test on him for a full year until She found the technology, the body, the mind—whatever it took to make him _this_—and then sent him up to the surface, to the concrete slab with The Door behind him, helpless and confused and entirely too vulnerable to live on his own.

The more she tries to think about it, the more her head hurts.

"I remember," says Wheatley. "I remember a Machine." His expression is contorted agony. The tendons in his neck push against his skin with every swallow. "I don't know what it was. It sort of looked like one of the old ones test subjects were kept in. The ones for suspended animation. Stasis. Had an empty chamber inside it and everything. Lots of wires and buttons everywhere."

He inhales, shaking, and opens his eyes to look at her. She's never seen terror splayed so plainly across another's face. Blue climbs into her and all she can see is the sky, the incredible blue of the sky, the wheat fields and his limp body cradled amongst the stalks. Something buries itself between her lungs.

"I think She used it," he says. "Somehow. On me. I don't know. I remember being hooked up to some kind of port next to The Machine. I think She might have activated my sleep mode or something because everything went black. And then I just… woke up. On the surface. Like this."

Her gaze flicks down to the notepad. She pauses over the paper, pen poised, about to write another question, but she stops when she feels the coldness of his hand encircle hers.

"Please," he says. "Please don't make me go back. I don't want to go back. I don't. That place, I just… I can't. I don't remember if She said anything, it's all blank, but I know She'll kill me if I go back There. You know Her. You know what kinds of things She's capable of. I don't care what happens, if you want to throw me out or leave me somewhere, whatever you want to do, you can do it, just… please don't make me go back."

Chell is frozen. She's not sure what she should do. She looks at his hand, the tendons and veins pressing under the skin, the soft hairs that climb up his arm. His tousled mess of hair, the sallowness of his face, the tears and the dirt smearing his cheeks.

Amongst the anger, the bewilderment, and the tumult encaged within, there is something small and so afraid inside of her, shivering, sutured into the knot of her heart. Her mind is a kaleidoscope of fractured images: The Shed, The Door, The Lair, The Moon.

She's had her opportunity to run. And she did. She ran. She ran so far and so fast; she ran until she couldn't run anymore. Diaphragm heaving, lungs aching, she ran and ran until she met the road, and when the soles of her long fall boots tasted crumbs of cracking asphalt, she continued to run until her legs gave out and the last of the adrenal vapor dissipated from her body.

The fear of Return is all too real.

"_No one's going back,_" she writes.

She doesn't know what she's going to do with him, but she's not a monster.

The tension seems to uncoil out of Wheatley's shoulders. He exhales, quavering. His grip lessens, pressure receding, and then he draws away and collects himself on his side of the table.

"I don't know what to say. Just… thank you." His bare forearm soaks up the filth and wetness from his face. "Really, I mean it. I do. Thank you. I… I don't deserve this. Any of this. Your kindness." Wheatley sniffles, more tears trickling down. The inside of his wrist catches them this time. "I'm so sorry. For everything. God. I really am. I wish I could say something that would sound better than just sorry because sorry sounds so bloody stupid, it really does, but I can't think of anything else. I'm just… I'm sorry."

Chell places her hands on the table and tries to fully assess what's happening. There is a man here—a very tall, skinny, and malnourished man—who is currently being inhabited by a confused, guilt-ridden piece of artificial intelligence. Somehow. And not only did said confused, guilt-ridden artificial intelligence try to kill her, but it also apologized, cried in her lap, walked five miles with her in new human legs, and is now sobbing again at her kitchen table.

Today has been an interesting day, to say the least.

"I don't know what to do now," sniffs Wheatley. He's feeling along the contours of his tear-soaked face, slowly, gradually, as if puzzled. "Always had a task before. Something in the queue. Something flagged up. Now there's just… _nothing_." He stares at the ink-scribbled notepad in front of her, thumb and forefinger tracing his jaw. "What sorts of things do you do? I mean… there's no tests. Which is good. But there's not anything to be done. No escaping, no turrets, no nothing. Which is also good, mind. Nice to not have that. Everything's just so different. Not exactly used to this. Used to… what, free will? I mean, that is what it is, isn't it? I don't have to do anything. No reason to. No one to tell me otherwise. I could just… sit here for as long as I wanted, right? And no one can do anything about it!"

As he blathers on, Chell's mind is churning. Whether she likes it or not, Wheatley is her responsibility now. He became her responsibility from the moment she helped him stand. Even more so now that she's brought him into her home.

She supposes she has a guest—for now—and that means things have to change. There is another living, breathing human being here, and although she's not sure how much about humans he truly knows, she'll have to provide for him. Clothes, nourishment, a sleeping space. She does have that spare room that she hasn't used, and she does have some money saved up. There's a thrift shop only a few blocks away; she could take him there and get him out of that awful jumpsuit. She has enough food for now, but she'll have to pick up some extra groceries for the week if he's going to stay.

"You know, I don't actually know your name."

Wheatley's voice jars the gears in her head. She glances up at him, and he's sitting there, fingers half tucked into the neck of his jumpsuit, feeling pale skin and hard collarbone. His mouth is curved into this soft, nervous grin, and it plucks one of her stress-taut heartstrings.

"It's a bit funny, isn't it? If you think about it. All that time, all we went through, and not once did I think to ask. Well, not that you could have told me. The whole not talking and all. But I had all the files at one point, access to all of them. Could have just done a search and found yours. Your name, your history, everything. Would have only taken a few seconds, ten at the most. Still didn't cross my mind. Well, was a bit, um, preoccupied at the time. But that's beside the point. So, anyway, how about we do a proper introduction? Since, you know, everything was so rushed before."

His eyes are bright, gorgeous, incredibly blue, still glistening with lingering tears, and she feels a foreign sort of excitement gather up as she watches him break into a smile.

"My name is Wheatley," he says, leaning forward. "What's yours?"

Chell could refuse. There's really no point in revealing her name to the man—the once-AI?—that once desired her death. He's not going to be here for that long. Why should she bother with something so irrelevant?

She picks up the pen. Along the paper, toward the bottom of the page, smooth and light, she writes her name in her fluid script.

Why is she even doing this?

She turns the notepad around and offers it to him with an outstretched arm. Wheatley stares at her, stares at the notepad, and then accepts it with both hands.

There is a moment of soft quiet as he inspects what she's written. His thumb traces over the imprinted ink on the white page, back and forth, slow and gentle across the five letters. She notes his wonder at the marks she's made, as if she's created some sort of delicate treasure that only he's been allowed to see. And really, she supposes that's quite correct—in a sense.

"Chell," he murmurs, looking unsure as he works his mouth around the consonants. "So that's your name. Interesting. I think it fits. It's lovely. Unique, but lovely. Not that unique is a bad thing, mind. My name is unique. I mean, really, not lots of people named Wheatley out there now, are there? At least I don't think so. Or maybe there are? I don't know. Guess I should've thought that one through."

The rest of his waffling doesn't register. Instead, she's stuck on her name.

The way he's said it is so… strange. It somehow presses closely against the underside of her skin, making its home in the circle of her ribs. Perhaps it's because no one aside from work has said her name in recent memory. Maybe it's the lilt of his accent or the tender tenor of his voice. Either way, she's now given him access to a deeper part of herself—something beyond the surface, beyond the stoic exterior she's kept together for so long—all through the power of a single word.

Chell.

The word that's kept her grounded in reality. The word that's given her strength. The word that belongs to her, and her alone.

Chell.

Just Chell.

And now Wheatley knows.

* * *

><p>"Hey! You around? Sorry I'm late, got a bit caught up, long story, but I'm home!"<p>

Chell opens her eyes and lifts her head from the couch cushion. Footfalls scuffle against the carpet and the flat's door slams shut. She thinks she can spot the ends of Wheatley's coat out of the corner of her eye.

Home. Him. What a thought. Weeks ago, it was only temporary. Wasn't it?

She slides off the sofa to meet him at the coatrack. Wheatley is bent over, untying his shoes, and as he slides them off his feet and nudges them onto the mat, she can't help but contrast him with the wreck he was when he first staggered through that door.

"So," he says, shimmying off his thick winter coat, "what do you say about some practice before dinner? Sounds good, yeah? We tried nursery rhymes last time and that seemed to work, so I thought, you know, why not stick with it a while and see how it goes? If you want. If you don't, that's fine. No forcing. Just thought I'd throw it out there."

After last night, after being alone with the wisp of her breath in the silence of her room with nightmares scratching at the casing of her skull, she's decided that she welcomes the opportunity to feel in control again.

And then she remembers being held against him in the darkness. Her hand clasped with his, his arm curved around the shape of her waist, his face so incredibly close and warm. Dreams sloughed from her mind and pooled beneath her feet in the gentle moonlight. The thought of her cheek pressing against his skin pumps heat through her veins.

Seriously, what is going on here?

"Have a good day?" Wheatley stares down at her as he takes off his knit cap, cheeks flushed with delicate pink. His hair is a charming mess and she keeps forgetting about his towering height and how very small she feels beside him.

Feeling somewhat dazed, Chell nods in reply.

"Good, good. That's good to hear. Mine was good as well. Bit of a development happened, actually. Something at the shop. I'll tell you about it later. Think you'll be interested." He claps his hands together and grins. "But, first things first. So, practice—what do you say? Want to give it a go? Ready for another round?"

Chell glances to her right. The metronome sits at the kitchen table by the window sill, patient and still. The image of the other day surfaces in her head: the rhythmic ticking, Wheatley across from her, mouth gaped in awe, his hands enveloping hers. It's soothing and it's comfort and it really shouldn't be, but it is, and it's _surreal_.

When she claimed her freedom, she couldn't imagine him as anything other than that mechanical beast in Her chassis. He crept into her dreams, him and Her alike, and they reduced her to a fragile girl with no will, no determination, no control. They pulled out the tenacity that kept her so carefully sewn together, wrenching thread by excruciating thread.

She remembers her nightmares. She remembers the cracking chamber and the crashing panels and the pallid face of the moon. She remembers him lying in the wheat fields, thin and trembling and smudged with dirt. She remembers bringing him home, she remembers the pain and the apologies and the tears collecting at the tip of his chin, and she remembers the first and only time he's ever said her name: the inflection, the excitement, the awe, the wonder anchoring so deep.

Chell meets his curious gaze. Everything is different. So incredibly different. The fragile creature she brought home that day carried repentance upon the vertebrae of his spine. He's sought to make things right, to make amends, and past be damned, he's definitely tried.

Even if his sincerity might not have been clear that day, it's quite crystal now.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Wheatley leans in toward her to get a closer look, and the vivid blue of his eyes through the lenses of his glasses kickstarts something behind her breastbone.

"You're looking very serious all of a sudden. Very intense. Did I say something wrong? It's all right if you don't want to practice tonight, if that's the problem. There's no pressure. I did say that before, right? Well, in case I didn't, no pressure. None involved. Don't feel like you've got to do this, because you don't. It's all at your pace. All right? Your pace. And if you want to go slower, that's fine. Completely normal. Don't want to go backwards, though. I mean, not that we are. Going backwards, that is. We've made excellent progress so far. At least I think we have. So I don't think we're in any danger of that."

Chell feels the corners of her mouth tug into a grin. She's not sure if it's him or his words or his voice or something else entirely, she doesn't know, she doesn't understand, but there is _something_ that makes it happen. And it happens so easily now. Before, she fought so hard to smile, caught up in the cogs of her own inner cacophony of voices and chimeric dreams.

"Is that a yes?" asks Wheatley. "Because I'm still not sure. You haven't actually given me an answer. Or… gesture. Mostly gesture. Not quite up to the answering yet."

_Yes_, she wants to say; instead, she nods for his benefit and she tries not to focus too much on how good he smells for her own.

The two of them enter the kitchen. She starts for the metronome and the table by the windowsill, but Wheatley passes her by and instead heads toward the stove. Her gaze follows him as he fetches the black teakettle by the silver handle and takes it to the sink in a few short strides. Tucking it beneath the tap, he turns the handle with his thumb and starts to fill the kettle with water.

He pauses when he seems to notice her looking at him.

"Sorry," says Wheatley. "It's right cold outside and I figured some tea would warm me up. Thought you might want some as well. Long day and all. Wouldn't hurt. Go on, have a seat. I'll join you in a second."

This is new, she thinks. New, but not unwanted. Chell does as she's told and she slumps into one of the chairs at the small table, her bare feet smoothing across the cool linoleum. She can hear him moving about behind her, floor creaking, and she finds herself peeking over her shoulder to watch—just to make sure he's doing it right. After all, he burned himself last time, didn't he?

Wheatley has rolled the sleeves of his powder-blue button-up a quarter of the way. She's able to see the light hairs that cover the skin of his thin forearms as he flips one of the dials on the stove on high. The kettle is placed over the respective burner, and when he's satisfied that everything is set, he walks across the small kitchen toward the table.

She can't help but notice the soft shades of red on the tips of his ears and in the flush of his cheeks as he sits in the chair across from her. She's sure it's from the cold, no reason it wouldn't be, but what bothers her is that it's somehow spurring that enigmatic tug, and she can feel it pulling gently at the knotted rhythm in her chest.

"That'll take a minute," says Wheatley. "So, while we wait, we can turn this on and try a short note or two to warm up, yeah?"

He flicks the tiny switch on the side of the metronome. It begins its steady _tock-tock-tock_ in the silence of the room, and Chell settles in the bend of the chair, closing her eyes to focus on the sound.

"All right. Let's start with a couple of deep breaths now. Nice and easy."

She hears him draw in a long inhale, gentle and smooth, and she follows his lead. Lungs expanding, diaphragm holding open, she feels herself start to relax as the air flows through her nose. The metronome's cadence pulses inside of her as her heart thumps in the film of her eardrums. Although she can't see him, his face emerges quite clearly in her mind's eye: the starkness of his skin, the brilliance of his eyes, the sharpness of his nose, the angles of his jaws.

After several outbreaths, she then hears him shift into a hum. It's a solid, mid-range note, and he holds it for a few beats. The next is lower, a bit longer, and Chell works the muscles in her throat in hopes of joining. She continues to breathe, intent on bending her body to her will. When he changes to yet another note, higher on the scale this time, there is a quiet stream of air that wells up her throat. Another note, lower, still steady; she lets the exhale uncoil from her lungs and out of her mouth. It ropes through her, muscles straining, and she feels a cinching tightness above her lungs where her vocal cords adduct—and her voice pulls through.

Gentle, quiet, it hums beneath the leisurely rhythm of the metronome and Wheatley's delicate tenor. The thrum in her throat takes her by surprise and there is a split moment where it's crumbling, splitting apart, sliding back down the walls and into her chest. Wheatley holds the lead and shifts again, a higher note, and Chell gathers her strength and welds her voice together. It wavers, bending between the steps of sharps and flats, and when everything feels stable, and she pushes herself into the sound, ribcage full.

She opens her eyes at last. And the first thing that captures her vision is the curve of his proud, adoring smile. Unbidden, she returns it. The vibration within her swells, stronger now, channeling through, and god, if she could only _control_ it. It feels as though she could reach out and use this shivering thing that's been trapped inside for so long, but it's wild and untamed. She doesn't know what to do with it. All she knows is focus, _force_, and it's suddenly there.

The sharp whistle of the kettle cuts into the metronome's beat. Chell's voice dies out.

"Oh!" Wheatley jumps straight out of his chair. "Sorry, hold that, hold that—you're doing brilliantly!—stay with it, all right? Well, you don't have to, but—just a second!"

He bounds across the kitchen. Snatching an oven mitt (no burning), he grabs the handle and moves the kettle off the burner as he turns the dial down to zero. After he sets it to the side, he begins to dig through cupboards, his back to her. Peering over her shoulder, she can see how his shirt has been tucked in and the creases in the fabric as it slips beneath his waistband.

Have his shoulders always been that broad? She doesn't remember.

Wheatley crows with an accomplished "Ah-_ha_!" when he comes across the tea cabinet. He plucks several packets from the box within and holds them out for her to see.

"Which kind do you want, love?" he asks. "There's green tea with… _anti-ox-i-dants_, whatever those are. Weird. There's cinnamon apple spice, chamomile… Oh, there's a gingerbread one. Like the biscuit, I think? That sounds good. And pumpkin as well. What do you think? I'm feeling apple. Don't know about you. Apple sound good? Always been fond of apples."

Chell nods in reply. As he sets two packets aside and begins to search for cups, she notes the movement of his hands. Absently, she wonders how they would look striking piano keys across a keyboard. That's what it was, right? The piano? He did say he wanted to play for her once he learned more. And honestly, the thought makes her face grow uncomfortably hot.

"All right, here we go. Here's yours." Wheatley sides her mug across the length of the table. "Careful, now. Did pretty well with the whole not burning part. I'd hate for you to get burned right at the end."

He sits down once more, his hands cupped around his own. A quiet noise of pleasure purrs in his throat as he lets the warmth seep into his hands. His fingers begin to drum up and down the ceramic sides in the metronome's gentle tempo.

Chell finds herself averting her gaze when his eyes settle on her.

"You're brilliant, you know," says Wheatley. He brings the cup to his lips and takes a tentative sip, but his eyes are very much focused on her face. "Seriously, I'm not exaggerating. It's astounding. As long as we keep this up, we'll be knocking words out in no time at all. At least, well, that's what it feels like. But I believe it. I really do. You can do anything you put your mind to. Or whatever that saying is. Because, I mean, really, _look_ at all of this—this little flat, this life you've built…" Wheatley's thumbs trace the rim of the mug and his face softens, mouth tugging into this adoring grin. "All of this here is proof of that. Proof that you can. I'm positive."

Chell's stare flickers down into the liquid in her mug, smiling, and she feels that pulling force that roots deeply under her breastbone. She takes the string of the tea bag and swirls it about the water and listens to the _tock-tock-tock_ and to the steady rhythm of Wheatley's breathing.

It's never occurred to her why she can only seem to find her voice when he's near.

There is a warmth that brushes the backs of her fingers. Chell looks up, and Wheatley's hand has crossed the frame of the table. The rich color from the cold has flushed his face again, though she doesn't know how. His thumb lightly touches her skin as his teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip.

It's such a strange thought. Finding her voice through him.

She's not even sure how long it's been lost.

* * *

><p>Thomas Key pumps on the breaks and the dusty Ford pickup's wheels crunch dirt and gravel as it grinds to a halt.<p>

Outside the driver's side window stands a decrepit shack. Its wooden exterior is slathered with red paint that's chipped and peeled over the years. Sheets of decaying plywood have been nailed over the windows, and a slanted tin roof fends off the weather with growing rust. It might have once been part of a barn, he thinks, but he can't be sure. Grass has encroached upon all sides except for the dirt pathway that curves up to meet the metal door.

Thomas sheds his plaid blazer and leaves it folded in the passenger seat. It's cold outside—it is the end of November, after all—but he would rather not risk ruining it. Dry cleaning is not cheap.

He clambers out of the truck. Keys in his trouser pocket, he shuts the door behind him with a heavy hand. He pulls up his left suspender strap, draws a breath, and shuffles toward the front. The path is dry, scattered with pebbles and larger rocks, and it parts the grass. He's been here before, but somehow the image of the rotting red shack amidst the sea of overgrown greens and browns always seems to give him a sense of unease.

Thomas stops before the metal door. It's thick, some sort of iron, he thinks, with a small covered slot about eye level.

He curls his fingers into a fist and knocks. Once, twice, thrice. A pause. Once, twice. Another pause. Three in quick succession. He takes one step back, his black dress shoes firmly planted in the dirt, and he folds his arms to wait.

He's timed this before. It takes forty seconds before he hears movement on the other side. Fifty-five seconds before someone approaches. One minute before there's a voice.

"Who's there?"

"It's me. Tom."

One minute ten before the slot opens.

A pair of gray eyes stares out. Pupils dilated and wide, the eyes blink and dart to him, to the sides, to the blue truck beyond, inspecting and surveying and making sure he's not been followed.

One minute twenty before the slot shuts. There's always mumbling, but Thomas can never make out what's being said.

It's one minute twenty-seven before the voice speaks again.

"What was the first word I told you when we met?"

Thomas fights off a shiver. The wind is starting to pick up and he's starting to second guess keeping his blazer in the truck.

"Chell," he replies.

One minute forty before the door finally opens.

It swings outward, and a pale, scraggly man in ripped jeans and a stained lab coat emerges from the shack. His movement is hindered; he favors his right leg in a jolting sort of limp. Thick black hair and wiry beard sway in the gusting breeze, and he holds a pen in one calloused hand.

Thomas unfolds his arms and steps forward.

"Hello, Doug. It's been a while."


	15. The Ailment

"You're doing well. Oh, extremely well. Keep it up! Yes, yes, that's it—good!— brilliant!"

Wheatley's mouth doesn't move, but he knows that voice is his. It's clearer somehow. Crisp. Close. He can't quite discern where it's coming from, but it's not from within. There's no rumble or gentle thrum underneath his ribs; only a disjointed sense of _this shouldn't be_ and _this is_.

There is a park. It is a park, isn't it? Or perhaps it's something else? He can't tell. The dream is shifting, weaving, building blocks that sharpen into the bodies of trees and carpets that unfurl out into an expanse of lush, kempt grass.

A tightness fills him as he soaks in the clear skies. He knows this place, he does, but he doesn't.

Wooden mallets tap along the seams of his skull, coaxing him to remember.

There are little humans now, scampering about with colorful knickknacks held in tiny fists. Where they came from, he's not sure. They seem to have sort of… materialized. Out of thin air. Emptiness one minute, diminutive creatures rolling amid the grass the next.

"Well done," he hears.

That's… huh. Does he truly sound like that? No, he does, doesn't he?

"You're doing splendidly," says his voice. It's such a strange thing to hear it from places other than humming within his mouth and ears. "Maybe give us another?"

Wheatley is in a human body, and yet he's not. He recognizes the too-long legs, the slender hands, the jutting wrist bones as the jumble of limbs She put him in, but he's not in control. He's looking out through his eyes, present, _there_, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't move his hands. They're plastered to a miniature keyboard across his lap on their own accord.

A small, delicate thing sits before him, nestled in the grass: brown eyes, fiery hair, flecks dappling chubby cheeks. She reaches out, the petite structure of her hand craning for his, and he finds himself turning his palm upward, spreading his fingers open for her.

"That was lovely, you know," says his voice. It's somehow higher, an octave raised, laced with praise. "You're absolutely brilliant. And if you keep at it, I'll bet you'll be all big and famous someday, just like your mum. Wouldn't that be great? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Everyone looking at you all, 'Oh, that's her, that's really her,' taking photographs and all that. Giving you some to sign. You'd like that, right?"

She's placed her hand in the center of his palm, engulfed by his sheer size, but he can't feel the pressure, the warmth, the texture. He can see the delight in her smile, but her voice is strangely absent.

His vision pans out across the park, past the playing children, and he catches a glimpse of a grown woman standing by one of the thick conifers nearby. The ends of her pearl-white skirt ruffle in the breeze, and juniper berries and pine needles pool by her sandals. Her hair is much like the little girl's, he notices, but much longer, thicker, wavier. Freckles dot her face, but her eyes are lighter, softer; a quiet hazel. She's different than the child.

The woman approaches in a leisurely gait, a smile creasing the corners of her mouth. He feels like he should know her, too, the both of them, and there's that incessant pattering again in the ticking clockwork of his head, but he can't place it.

It's so close. It's there. He knows it is. Why can't he remember?

The world begins to dissolve.

Peach-fuzz faces melt into metal and the grass shimmers into sheets of pearlescent tile. Desks sprout from the floor, thin metal and heavy wood, and brilliant lights bloom from the paneled ceiling. It happens so fast he can't process the shift; he's spinning, sinking into the ground, drowning.

And then it stops.

Wheatley gathers his bearings. The harsh brilliance of fluorescents makes him squint. He has no control over his body, but from what limited view he has, it seems the park has transmuted itself into what looks to be a furnished laboratory.

"Tell us a bit about yourself," says a formless shape.

They emerge from places he can't see, billowing up from the cold tiles. They're all around him, black as pitch and looming.

What's happening?

"You already know all about me," he finds himself saying. It's a strange noise. It's his, he knows, but it feels somehow submerged, wrong, laced with poisonous fury. "You got all those clipboards and files. You don't need to ask. You've got it all right there in front of you. Why you bothering with this?"

The shapes wobble, spasm, and sprout limbs. The blackness hones in and melds itself into folds of clothing. Hands tucked into pristine lab coats, arms cradling papers and strange ropes of wires and tubing.

"Of course we know," says the foremost, "but this is formal. For our records, you see. It's being filmed. See that up there? There, in the corner?" Newly shaped fingers gesture to a far off area of the room.

Wheatley's vision follows to a white-grey spherical contraption bolted high up on a wall to his right. Its eye is an eerie drop of crimson.

"Say hello," says the man.

Fear settles in, cold and dense upon his chest. It immerses itself beneath his ribs and clamps tight, frighteningly tight, freezing in his veins. Wheatley knows the face of that camera. It's in the employee quarters. It's in every test chamber. It's everywhere, always, and watching.

No. No, no, no, _no_, he doesn't want to face Her, he can't, She'll kill him, She'll rip him apart, disassemble him, pull him out and crush him into nothing—

"You can't _do_ this," says the voice in Wheatley's mouth. "They'll look for me, you know. They will! I have friends, colleagues, family, someone's going to notice I'm—"

The lens seems to focus on him, swirling, red and mechanical and—

"Tell us about yourself. What you do, what brought you here."

She's watching him, watching, _watching_, and he can't—

"I'm here because you _trapped_ me!"

For the first time since the dream shifted, since it swallowed him into this mock world of Aperture Science, he can see why he can't move. His wrists and ankles are bound, held fast by metal shackles; he's lying in a chair of some sort, reclined backward, encircled by faceless scientists in coats, ensnared.

What is _happening_?

"You volunteered," says the man. He tilts his head as though he can't fathom why Wheatley is struggling.

"No," Wheatley hears, welling up from within his throat.

It's rage and wrath and he can feel the manacles dig into the flesh of his arms as he strains forward. There's sharpness and digging and pain and it hurts but he desperately needs to get out of here.

"I came here for the kids. For the test subjects. For all the people you said I'd help."

He's trying to lean forward, trying to break free, but he can't, he's _weak_; he's trapped and he's weak and he's shoved into this place where he never wanted to be, never, he shouldn't be here, he should be _above_.

"I'm here for them," he rasps. "Here for _them_. I'm here because I wanted to help!"

"A noble cause," remarks the man, thumbing the stubble on his chin. "Trust me: this is noble, too. The closer we are to building artificial consciousness, the closer we'll be to bigger and better discoveries."

Artificial consciousness? No, but he's—

"What are you going to do to me?"

There is a tremble in his voice. _His_ voice. This is _his_ voice. Shaking. Panic. Fear. He is afraid, and the creatures know.

"What are we going to do?" The scientist shrugs as he folds his hands into his coat pockets. "Collect and compile information."

The other silhouettes begin to swarm around the edges of Wheatley's vision. Plastic pieces are pressed against his forehead by chilled fingers; wires trickle down the sides of the chair and rope into machines he can't see.

"After that, well…"

A thrum pervades the room. The machinery roars to life, and everything around him shakes with power.

"You won't remember the rest."

He wants to scream, but nothing comes.

* * *

><p>Wheatley stirs in the warmth of his bed.<p>

There was a nightmare. He can feel it. All of the details are too far gone to parse, sieving themselves into mottled motes of wispy images, but the unmistakable sense of terror that clings to the undersides of his ribs is as sure a sign as any.

The blankets are thick and heavy over him. Precious heat is trapped in the wraps of the cocoon he's woven in his sleep. Drowsy with his heartbeat in his throat, he ducks beneath the covers and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. The pressure isn't quite enough to lift the weight that sticks to his lids—or relieve the dread.

He blinks into the soft darkness beneath the blankets. He tries to think, to grasp onto what little he remembers, tries to gain a proper handle on things, but it's not quite working.

What happened? There is a sinking knot inside of him—it was something _important_, something _significant_, he knows it was—but any lingering images are making themselves scarce.

He wishes he could remember.

Dragging himself back above the covers, he lolls his cheek against the pillow and squints at the clock on the nightstand. The numbers are bleary blots of red against an off white canvas. He could reach out and grab his glasses, but that would require his arm being out in the cold air—which, he decides, is not at all conducive to remaining warm.

No real reason to get out of bed yet, is there?

Wheatley nuzzles into his pillow and closes his eyes. The harshness of the morning sun glitters under the curtains, but his room is still shrouded in a calmer dark. It's one of many comforts that he's come to savor.

Moments pass. Balancing on the edge of consciousness and sleep, he lets his mind wander.

As the remnants of the nightmare slough away under the sunglare, he daydreams of Chell. He knows he probably shouldn't because he always ends up forgetting small things in the midst, like stuffing his laundry in the basket or putting the toothpaste back in its cabinet or properly tying his shoes in that far too complicated looping twist, but he does it anyway. Perhaps it's terrible of him, but he takes pleasure in what his brain conjures: her, her body, her voice.

Her voice. Wheatley can't get enough of her voice.

It's only small notes that stitch together into a quiet, fragile hum that would disintegrate in the warmth of his palm. It's slightly off key and entwined with silly nursery rhymes like Three Blind Mice and London Bridge and Mary Had a Little Lamb, rhymes that might make anyone embarrassed to sing past childhood, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't. None of it. Just hearing her is enough.

Actually, no. No. It's not enough. No, not enough at all. _More_ than enough. It's so enough that he gets lost. The world could be collapsing, splitting apart, fires raging, dismantled by some extraterrestrial force, and he would be so incredibly lost in her that future civilizations would dredge him up from the magma slop beneath the earth's crust and fashion him into crude fuel.

He's numb to everything but her. Her, and her voice, that thread-thin thing she's kept so entrenched in the vault behind her ribs. It's a small sound, so _raw_, so _unrefined_; a murmur that's taken—months? Years? How long?—to construct, and that can unravel away into silence within seconds.

He's become so focused on its existence, so lost in her midst and so overwhelmed that his mind constructs intricate fantasies about it. He doesn't know what her words sound like (though he'd like to), but there is a sound. No matter how fragile or small, there is a sound, and from it, he imagines songs, sentences, laughter—everything.

Most of all, he imagines her saying his name.

It would be gentle and whispery soft. She would stand in front of him, a shy yet proud smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She would have her arms hooked around the small of his back, pressing tight. She would be close, she would be warm, and she would stare up at him, this small little lady who's finally discovered herself, and whisper the sound of his name, welling up from her vocal cords.

He knows it's silly. He knows it's ridiculous. Wishful thinking, really. Still, the idea twists tight thrill within his heart. He won't lie to himself: he very much wants to hear his name in her voice.

And it's this precious, sequestered thing that she's allowed him to hear. _Him_. Him of all people! God, he can scarcely believe it; _him_, the moron, the idiot, the ex-artificial intelligence that had tried to end her as a quiet smear on the facility floor. It's him, it's Wheatley, it's him that's composed of all of these terrible things, a book of failures and stupid decisions, and it's _him_ that's helped her achieve this feat—and no one else.

Just him. Him and his tangle of words shoved into a fleshy mansuit that he's only just learned how to maneuver without flailing about.

And he doesn't deserve it. He's a selfish individual and he doesn't deserve this sense of accomplishment after all that's happened. And that's really what it is, isn't it? If you cut away the gristle and scrape down to the very bone of it all.

He gets the thrill of triumph over an impossible obstacle. It's excitement, admiration; it's her being as magnificent as she's always been and conquering everything one step at a time, and it's him being by her side, soaking it in.

He's become so transfixed with this secondhand high off of a drug he can't even name, and he's not even doing all the work. He's just sort of… leading along, guiding with this somehow acquired knowledge he didn't even know he had, flying by the seat of his pants.

It's ridiculous. He has no idea what he's doing. He shouldn't feel like this. He shouldn't have this swelling pride pressing against his insides. She's the one that deserves all these good feelings, all these pleasurable thoughts.

Not him.

Her.

And she's… she's so incredible.

Wheatley nuzzles against the softness of his pillow at the thought of her and wishes he were of the clever sort. He wishes he had access to all the data he once had. If knew all the words to describe her, he'd use them. He'd scour the English language and snatch them up with greedy fingers, and he'd paint a portrait of her with their letters, fingers coated in inky syllables. He doesn't know what it would look like—a strange concept, a letter portrait—but he knows it would be beautiful. There's no way it wouldn't be because she is.

His toes curl and he nestles into the blankets, a strange pressure swelling within his chest. Well, he thinks, there it is, out in the open, being honest with himself: Chell is beautiful. God, she really is.

It tugs at his heartstrings in a peculiar way because he never would have used a word like that to describe a human before. Sure, they were interesting; they accomplished all sorts of things. They built robots, after all. They allowed him to exist! Still, beautiful was not something he thought to call one. His inner workings just didn't tick that way. Something changed.

Wheatley spent lifetimes in that facility. He never thought about the aesthetic of the human body or dwelled on the personalities of those he came across. And yet here he is, all this time later, coming to terms with the fact that this is now something that's cracked its way into his skull, entwining so closely with his thoughts.

She's beautiful.

And it's so strange, because it's these kinds of thoughts that have all but consumed him over the course of the week. Whether he's at the shop stocking boxes of reeds or at the flat alone on his days off, his mind always drifts in her direction. There's no stopping it, either. He makes a conscious, diligent effort to stay on task, but he's fighting something far too powerful, something too potent, fighting sleep. No matter how much he tries, it always claims him, and then he's slipping deeper and mind-painted pictures well up in the darkness to meet him.

On top of it, his defective body only seems to be getting worse. Sweaty palms, dry throat, palpitating heart; things that make him think he's going on the blink. There is a definite pattern, he's noticed: it's around her. Always. And he doesn't know why.

That's not to say he hasn't tried to figure it out. He has devoted time to examining himself in the mirror and noting his body's reactions. He's watched other humans on his walks, searching for signs of the things he's experienced. He's broken down the events in his mind's eye and analyzed them for anything that could clue him in on what's happening.

Wheatley's only conclusion, however, is that there's no way any of it can be a good thing. He enjoys being with Chell, he really does; she's done so much for him, more than he could ever thank her for, and the thought of being with her excites him like nothing else.

But if his body is going to malfunction when she's around, well… honestly, he has no idea what that means.

It's not something that's supposed to happen. He's pretty sure. All evidence seems to support that, at least. And it would comfort him if his worldview weren't so limited. He can only use what he's gathered from living as a human thus far, and unfortunately, that's not much. There's sparse information on social cues, some groundwork on basic functions and needs that was laid quite some time ago from his core days, and maybe some additional pockets of knowledge surrounding this therapy idea. Not particularly helpful when it comes to this.

So, buoyant in this malleable place between wakefulness and slumber, Wheatley decides that he is very much in need of a second opinion.

Of course, his very first thought is to ask Chell. That's always been a thought. He's positive she would know; she's so clever, so brilliant, so smart, and if there's anyone would know about this sort of thing, it would be her. She's here this whole time, guiding him and caring for him and ensuring his survival, and… well, she has the most experience with humanity between the two of them, if he's honest.

But there is a problem. A very real problem.

He can't make himself force the question.

And he's tried. He's really, really tried. No matter what, it always ends with him sputtering a lot of half formed syllables and incoherent gibberish. He malfunctions on the spot, and he can't say a bloody thing about it because he's too focused on the glimmer in her eyes, the smile at the corners of her mouth, the color in her cheeks.

Ah, and there is yet another problem. A problem he hadn't anticipated.

Wheatley risks upsetting her.

He risks reminding her of the place they ran from. Reminding her of the place she never wants to see again. The place she sees every night under her eyelids, the place that swells under the casing of her skull and soaks into every footprint she leaves—all because of something She might be behind.

He's already a walking, talking reminder. He's living proof that what happened actually happened, and Chell has let him stay here out of kindness. If She truly tampered with his body, if She's the only one who has the ability to repair him, if he must Return—

There is the feeling of something sharp sliding between his ribs. Prickles sluice down the length of his spine, and Wheatley twists among the sheets in dread.

No. No, he…

He won't do that. _No_.

He refuses.

He won't put her through that. Not after all she's done.

But he has to know. He _has_ to know. He can't continue like this for much longer because the worry will eat at him, just like The Itch, crawling under him and pulling out the wires and gnawing into the circuitry of his motherboard, reprogramming, repurposing, tripping the switches of his inner clockwork to a different rhythm until it consumes him from the inside out.

No, he won't ask her. He won't.

But there must be someone out there who knows. Someone he can ask. Anyone. Someone that can tell him if he's normal, if this is human.

There must be. There _must_.

Wheatley rolls over and pulls the covers up to his chin. It should be time to get up soon, he thinks, and though a part of him looks forward to it (she's already up, he knows it), the rest wants nothing to do with the world outside of bed. The floor is shockingly cold this early, and his room always seems to hold colder temperatures than the rest of the flat. Bitter cold is not something he's particularly fond of, and the comforting warmth of his blanket cocoon is doing well in dissuading him from getting up.

She's awake, though. He's sure of it. And probably working on breakfast.

Wheatley grins into his pillow. His imagination paints her wearing pastel bedclothes. Brushstrokes of dark hair sweep down her face and kiss her collarbone. The pools of her eyes are soft, gentle, as is the slope of her face, contrasting deeply with the sharp lines that shape her dexterous hands. The scene is a Jackson Pollock masterpiece, speckled in bacon grease and flecks of pepper from the stove.

He wants to see her. The pleasure—that's what it is, it's got to be, nothing else feels so good—of being in the same room is so very nice. And now that he really thinks about it, the cold isn't so bad, is it? Easily combatable. He's wearing trousers and a long sleeved shirt, after all. Maybe he'll grab some socks. He could go for toasty socks. He's not sure if he can reach the dresser from the bed, though. Maybe if he stretches?

A gentle knock on his door pervades the quiet. There is a white crash of _oh god it's her_ behind his eyelids, and his muscles spasm awake. With a jaw cracking yawn, he arches off the mattress in a stretch and curls into a sit.

"I'm up, I'm up," he says, wrapping the blankets tighter around his lanky body. His heartbeat escalates and the heat entrapped in his cocoon suddenly seems far too hot.

The door opens, and Chell pokes her head in.

Wheatley doesn't have his glasses on, but he doesn't need them. He knows what she looks like through the haze. It's not because he's stolen so many glances at her throughout the week (that's a ridiculous assumption, really now), but he can see the curve of her face, her jaws, the jut of her nose, the color of her lips, all brilliant crystal with the help of memory.

She greets him with a wave. It's blurry; the spaces between her fingers seep with the white of the wall and the gentle caramel of her skin. The fringe of her hair frames her temples, and even without glasses, he can tell it's already combed and drawn into its customary ponytail.

"Morning," he says. "Up and about bright and early, as usual. Well, at least I think it's early. It feels like it. Can't really see the clock. Anyway, hope you slept well. I know I did." The ends of his mouth coax into a smile, though he doesn't mean for it to happen. "I'll be out in a minute. Have to find socks. Don't know if you've noticed—probably have, actually, since it's a bit hard _not_ to notice—but the floor is bloody cold first thing in the morning."

In reply, she pops a leg in the door, wiggling her toes. Black socks—or things that looks like black socks—cover her feet. Wheatley thinks she gives him a grin (he sucks in this fluttery breath like she does), but he can't be sure. He really should have grabbed his glasses.

Chell pulls out of his frame of vision and shuts the door. It's faint, but he can hear the purposeful padding of her footsteps as she makes her way across the living room and toward the kitchen. The distance doesn't make his body malfunction any less.

After a moment of steeping in the warmth she leaves behind (he's not even sure how that's possible, if he's honest), Wheatley unwraps an arm from his swath of covers and reaches out for his glasses on the bedside table. Pushing the frames up his long nose, the soft blur of the world hones into sharp edges, and he can see properly once again.

"All right," he says, stifling another yawn with his palm across his mouth. "All right, up and at 'em."

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Wheatley tentatively touches the floor with a single toe. It's cold, but he decides that it's nothing he can't survive. On tiptoes, he makes his way to the dresser and fishes through the drawers. After acquiring socks (a nice wooly pair she bought) he shimmies them on and emerges from his room.

The door opens, and he's greeted with the heady aroma of pancake batter. It's a thick, sweet smell; one that dregs up the memory of the second time he awoke as a human. It's somewhat embarrassing to think about now, but visceral needs were new developments for him at the start, and so Wheatley was under the impression that the pangs of hunger meant death. To placate him, Chell made him pancakes as his first proper breakfast.

Wheatley feels his face grow hot. In his defense, it was a very real problem at the time.

When he enters the kitchen, the first thing he notices is that she's already dressed for work: long sleeved lavender blouse, smart slacks in a charcoal gray. She sits at the table, fork in hand, hidden away by a short-stack swathed in syrup.

"Smells good," he remarks, headed toward the stove.

A plate and silverware have already been set out for him, he notices, and so he snatches them and slides a few pancakes onto his plate. The syrup bottle is a cold glass, halfway full, and wrapped in a fancy label. He twists the cap off before tilting it upside down and slathering his breakfast in the stuff.

When Wheatley joins her at the table, he takes a moment to watch the movements of her hand, calculating how she holds the fork between her fingers. He mimics her, using the side of one of the prongs to sidle into the pancakes and separate pieces small enough to fit into his mouth. He mops each one about the puddle of syrup pooling in his plate before placing it onto his tongue.

He can't help but note her smile when he makes a noise in approval.

"You know, I shouldn't be," he says, poking at another pancake, "but I'm always surprised at how _good_ all the stuff you make is."

Chell grins and says nothing. And he knows he shouldn't, but he desperately wishes it were different.

"Had another dream," says Wheatley, chewing the mouthful he's speared with his fork. He meets her gaze, and there is a definite jump in his chest. He tries his best to ignore the rhythmic hammering inside his ribcage. "I don't really remember what it was. I think it was a bad one, though. Was all weird when I woke up. You know. Darker stuff. Nightmares." He gestures to her with the end of his fork. "Like… well, like yours. But maybe not. I mean, I don't—well, no, I suppose I can guess what you dream of, but I don't think mine was like that. Not really."

She's resting her jaw in one hand, staring at him across the table with a much more muted expression than what she previously had. Her forehead knits, concern pinching between her eyebrows.

"Sorry," he amends. "Didn't mean anything by it. Wasn't mean to be offensive, if it was. I don't mean to say your dreams are like mine, because I'm sure they're not. Probably a lot worse, come to think of it. I mean, really, last week was proof enough now, wasn't it? With you coming in and all, unable to sleep, sort of anxious, and I—I … oh."

Chell has turned away. Her blue eyes are focused at this peculiar stretch of space between the tabletop and the windowpane, her fingers toying absently with the fork. She won't look at him.

"Sorry, did I say something wrong?" Something inside of him has coiled up in contrition. He wants to reach out across the table and touch the plane of her hand, but he doesn't. "I did, didn't I?"

She shakes her head.

It's true that Wheatley has gotten moderately better at reading her body language over the course of their tentative relationship. And actually, come to think of it, he rather has a knack for this sort of thing. He's not quite sure how or why, but he's picked up on it without any trouble. Gestures, expressions, and overall countenance give him a fairly good idea of what's trying to be conveyed.

Still, this is something he's unsure about.

"Hey," he says, craning his neck to peer at her from across the table. He notices that a slight flush colors her cheeks, but he doesn't know why—it's certainly not that cold in here. "Look, I didn't mean it. Whatever it was. Didn't mean to go about, you know, one-upping you on the dream front."

Chell shakes her head again, and brandishes her fork as if to say no or to shoo him away. Her mouth is thin, her jaw is set, and she brings her palm against her forehead.

Wheatley stares. Two plates of syrup-drizzled pancakes and a single glass of milk fill the distance between them. He's absently poking at his breakfast with the prongs of his fork, but he doesn't bother to eat any.

"I don't—sorry, I don't know what's happening," he manages, leaning forward. "Could you clue me in? Not that it's mandatory or anything, but I'm just saying it would… well, it would be helpful. You know. For someone who has absolutely no idea what's going on. Which would be me."

Chell's gaze flicks to him, and then back to the interesting place along the table and windowpane. Her throat moves as though she's working her muscles to speak. The morning sun from beyond the panes of glass catches the sheen in her hair, and it somehow reminds him of the shimmering paths of hard light that she once traversed, portal gun in hand.

He can feel his heart fluttering beside his lungs. He swears that one way or another, it's going to leave his body. He just knows it.

"A-Are you—"

Lightning quick, the pad of her finger presses against his lips, pushing his question back behind his teeth. Her skin is soft, warm, and it feels as though she's seeping into him and he can't muster a response because his words are snagged on canines and bicuspids, shoved between his molars.

Wheatley doesn't have any reference for this. There is no groundwork, architecture, or social structure in his head. There's a rush of _this feels good_ and _what is happening_ and it feels like his mind has been blanched blank, as if a sudden leak has poured out all of the thoughts and images and resources he's come to rely on. He's sitting across from her, following the taut rope of her arm as it stretches over the plates and silverware and the solitary glass of milk to her face, to the shapes of her eyes, to the unmistakable glow of her skin, and he is equal parts enraptured and lost.

His adam's apple bobs in a hard swallow. There is a moment of silent static in his mind's eye. A headache begins to form somewhere between his temples, and as it swells, he thinks he can hear some sort of distant hum—something he can't quite place.

Wheatley is not sure if it's impulse or memories or malfunction or something else, but he finds himself enfolding her hand with his. It's slow, gradual, like he's groggy and it's past midnight and she's somehow turned up at the foot of his bed, the entire room shrouded in cloaks of darkness, but she's there, burning bright, a lighthouse across the ocean.

He pulls her fingers away from his mouth and presses them against his cheek.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

The headache blossoms. It's uncomfortable, but he tries his best to ignore it. He knows he must look very strange with a pained scowl coupled with her hand in his grasp, but he peers at her anyway behind bony fingers and smudged lenses.

"I'm not one hundred percent on what's happening here, if I'm honest." He clears his throat, making an effort to regain his composure. "And I mean all around, not just… you know, the dream. Thing."

Chell is openly staring at him across the table, nonplussed. A gentle pink has cropped up around her face, and he can't help but notice the column of her neck and the feathery wisps of dark hair that have pulled out of her ponytail. His heartbeat pulses in his neck.

God, she's beautiful.

"Right," he says, following her gaze down to her outstretched hand. "Right, well, I suppose you want this back. Can't be very comfortable going 'cross the table like that, yeah?"

Wheatley lets go with a nervous laugh.

For a moment, Chell doesn't move. It's light, but he can feel the tips of her fingers trace down the line of his jaw. Something plants itself firmly at the base of his spine and spirals up his vertebrae, honing in to gnaw at his heart. His palms have grown slick; his headache seems worse; he can't focus.

Before he can do anything, before he can think, she pulls away.

There is a smile that pinches the corners of her mouth, slight and coy, and Wheatley feels stunned as she draws back into her usual posture and resumes eating her breakfast. He struggles to find the dexterity to use his fork with trembling fingers, and so he ends up dropping it on the table with a loud clatter.

Wheatley takes a deep breath.

Yeah.

Yeah, he needs to see someone about this malfunctioning stuff.

* * *

><p>The trek down to the music shop is very bitter and very cold.<p>

Wheatley has his mouth buried into the collar of his coat. With the thick material between his nose and the air, it feels slightly less like ice is fissuring into his lungs when he breathes. The top of his head is warm thanks to his hat, but his face is exposed; the chill nips at his nose and cheekbones with sharp, frosty teeth.

As he strides down the sidewalk and approaches the shop, he notices something remarkably different.

Glittering strings of silver and gold line the inner doorframe of the store. Reds, greens, and blues garnish the once plain display window; stars, holey circles, and little jagged-shaped somethings that look to be made out of colored paper have been pasted upon glass from the inside. Tucked amongst the metronome and musical merchandise, there is a miniature tree draped in a spiral of white-gold lights.

Well, he thinks, That definitely wasn't there yesterday.

Wheatley draws up to the window and peers through the glass and various shapes at the small tree. The lights are blinking, he notes; through the fog of his breath on the glossy surface of the window, he watches as they switch on and off in alternating patterns.

It's not that Wheatley unfamiliar with these kinds of decorations. He's seen similar things strewn about other shop-fronts and lampposts on his walks. In fact, the lights and colors make him feel sort of fuzzy on the inside. They're a somehow comforting presence. Still, he's a bit thrown off—he didn't think the old clerk did this kind of thing.

Wheatley shuffles his way in with the soft ding of the bell chiming over his ears. He shuts the door with the end of his elbow, puffing hot air between his cupped hands. The lenses of his glasses mist over from the heat; the world becomes an unintelligible fog.

"Hello?" he calls, nudging the frames down his nose. Everything is blurry, but at least there are shapes—albeit fuzzy ones.

"Wheatley?"

Despite his (lack of) height, Thomas cranes his neck (Wheatley thinks; he's not _entirely_ positive) in an effort to look over the various shelves from the front desk. He digs into his breast pocket with a free hand and slides his glasses on.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "You know, I could've sworn I told you that you didn't have to come in today."

"You did," says Wheatley. He rubs his palms together in hopes of speeding up the warming process, but it doesn't work quite as well as he likes. "Just thought I'd, you know, pop in for a while. See what's happening."

"Well," says Thomas, bushy eyebrow raised, "nice to see you haven't frozen, at least. Cold enough for you?"

"Oh, _no_, not at all. No, I'm totally fine. Just a walking ice cube. Not that that's a problem or anything. Could use a bit more cold, actually." Wheatley takes off his knit cap and rubs his face with the fabric. His nose and cheeks almost feel like the prickling sort of numb that he gets when his arm falls asleep. "Don't suppose we write an order for that?"

"Ha! Probably." Thomas continues scribbling on the papers at the desk. "I'm telling you, spring can't come soon enough. Been up here for a long while, so it's not like I'm not used to the cold, but sometimes you get sick of waking up to negative five every morning."

"Bloody freezing," says Wheatley, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"_Below_ bloody freezing," Thomas agrees.

Wheatley stuffs his hat into his coat pocket and pads up to the desk, still rubbing at his reddened knuckles. His face is burning raw from the wind. It would be an understatement to say he's extremely thankful for heating.

"So you said you've been up here a while," says Wheatley. "Exactly how long's a 'long while'?"

Thomas pauses to rub at the white-grey stubble on his chin. Dark brushstrokes of grey sweep beneath his eyes; his crow's-feet and the worry lines that pinch by his mouth somehow seem deeper than before.

"Oh, some forty-odd years, I think," he says. "But that was after I came back from overseas. Probably longer then. I grew up around this area. Well, not _this_ area—bit further out."

"Forty years?" says Wheatley. He assumed Thomas had been around, but he hadn't been expecting that. "That's an awful long while, then."

"I know, I know, I'm old," says the clerk. "No need to go reminding me."

Thomas places his pen upon the desk and moves out from behind the paper-strewn bulk of wood. As he draws closer, Wheatley's eyes dart to a small folded paper tucked between the old man's fingers.

"Here," says Thomas, offering the slip in an open palm. "Your pay. I subtracted the cost of the metronome from the total, but there's still a decent amount left. Good for groceries or something, I imagine."

Wheatley accepts it, and with a knobby thumb, he flips the paper open. Bits of text are printed across the surface, strings of numbers, Thomas's full name (_Thomas Zachary Key_), and something that looks to be a street address, but he can't be sure. Among the crisp serif font are words scribbled in black pen, curling in a wild, delicate script. Thomas's signature is at the bottom; a collection of ink-carved loops and swirling lines.

"Uh, thank you," says Wheatley. "So I'll be able to use this? For money, that is."

"Well, yes, but you'll have to cash it first."

"I… _cash_ it? I'm sorry?" Wheatley squints down at the paper. "That's not really something I'm familiar with, if I'm honest."

"Really?" Thomas rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. "Well. That's a little inconvenient. All right, how about this: I'll leave a touch early today, take you to the bank down the street. We'll cash it there. I'd offer to have you get an account, but something tells me you don't have all the proper paperwork."

Wheatley arches an eyebrow. "Paperwork? For what?"

"Identification, social security, green card, I—no, you know what? Never mind. Not important." Thomas scratches at the side of his nose with his thumbnail and makes a scratchy noise somewhere in his throat. "We'll get things taken care of. Don't worry about it."

"As long as this will help her out," says Wheatley, slipping the precious piece of paper into one of his coat pockets. "S'all I'm worried about, really. Figure if I can… well, you know, contribute somehow, I might not be so bloody useless."

"I'm sorry? Useless?"

"Well, I mean, overall I'm not really much use. Can't really… fit in, I guess. Do the proper stuff everyone's supposed to do." Wheatley bites at his lower lip. He focuses on the patterns of skin and faint hairs that wrap around his knuckles, and he finds himself wishing he were shorter. At least he could tuck himself behind a shelf. "I used to be useful. I think. At one point. Everything's sort of muddled about, so I'm not entirely sure on that, but I like to think I was."

Thomas has stepped behind the desk once more, turning his attention to the various stacks of papers that are scattered about its surface. He runs a craggy hand through his white hair and picks up his pen with his other hand.

"You're plenty useful," he says, pressing it to paper. His mouth is a thin line, but his eyes are kind. "It's frustrating, sure, but putting yourself down won't do any good."

"Don't know about that. I certainly don't feel very useful." Wheatley glances over to the clerk, noting the blue plaid dress shirt that pokes out from beneath his chestnut blazer. He approves of Thomas's taste.

"Listen," says Wheatley. "I know it's a weird question—probably very weird, actually, now that I think about it—but you're one of the only blokes I know, and I'm honestly starting to run out of options, so… you wouldn't happen to know anything about _abnormalities_, would you?"

Thomas's face contorts into a puzzled frown. He pauses, looking up from his paperwork. "Abnormalities?"

"Abnormalities," Wheatley affirms.

"Did you… want to expand on that?"

"Well," says Wheatley, "it's—it's complicated."

Thomas shrugs. "Everything's complicated."

Wheatley doesn't have a response for that.

"Right," he says. "Right, well, I don't know really what it is. To sum it up, I think something's wrong with me."

"This is aside from the memory loss?"

"Well—what?" Wheatley shakes his head. "No, no, this doesn't have anything to do with memory loss. Or… maybe it does. I don't know. Like I said, it's complicated. You know, complex stuff. Details."

Thomas flips a page. "All right. Out with it, then."

Wheatley folds his hands together, watching as his fingers bend and lace amongst themselves. There is a knot in his throat, and he's not sure how it got there.

"It's like everything inside me gets all twisted up." He shifts, squeezing his hands. "My heart's just… it feels like it's beating too fast, you know? Like it's trying to get out. I get all hot and uncomfortable, and it—it feels like there's something wrong. Something not normal. Something that shouldn't be happening because none of it happens anywhere else."

He finds himself sinking his fingernails into the flesh of his palms. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel like he has a grip on things.

"And what's worse is I can't tell her about it. When I try, my words get all buttery and I can't talk straight, and then I've lost track of things and somehow I'm waffling about bloody _toast_ for god's sake. Toast, or… or the weather, or whatever else pops into my head."

It's not funny, but he laughs. Air flows through his lungs and his diaphragm shakes with the force and anxiety is trickling down the structure of his spine.

"I mean, really, who talks about those kinds of things? Like toast. And you know, come to think of it, I don't think I've ever had a serious conversation about the weather before. What are you supposed to say? 'Oh, it's raining again, isn't it?' 'Yes, it does look that way.' Just, _really_, what kind of exchange is that?"

Wheatley draws in a jagged breath and runs his fingers through his hair. He can feel the electric pull of some of the strands as they stand on end. He pauses to look at Thomas, who is still busy scribbling on the forms with his pen.

"There _is_ something wrong with me, isn't there?" he asks.

Thomas glances up, raising his bushy brows, but continues to write. "From the sound of it, I would say so."

"Oh, god," says Wheatley, engulfing his forehead with his hand. "What is it? Is it fatal? Do you know? You do know, don't you? I mean, you healed people. You said that. You did, I remember. Can it be fixed? Whatever's wrong with me. I'm not going to die, am I?"

The old clerk licks his thumb and flips through the pages. "Hard to say, really. But the good news is that it's a common ailment—if it's what I think it is."

"That doesn't make me feel much better," says Wheatley.

"Why not? A good number of folks suffer through the same thing. It's not a unique occurrence."

"What do you mean?"

Thomas rolls the pen between his thick fingers and curls his rat's tail about his thumb. "Well, if I'm not mistaken—which I could be, so take this with a grain of salt—it's a light case of infatuation, which isn't much of a big deal."

A moment passes where Wheatley tries to process what is being said. If he still had access to hundreds of databases chock full of terabytes of information—he wishes he did, _god_ does he ever wish he did—he would be sifting through them vigorously.

It's like someone ripped off a door he's been struggling to open. Just like that, incredibly quick, a finger-snap, and there are now things pouring into his head, _out_ of his head, swallowing and overflowing. His headache returns in full force, and he suddenly feels very dizzy.

"Oh, god."

_Infatuation_.

With the flood bursting through his mind, his awareness has sharpened. He _knows_ what this means, he _knows_; there's no way he couldn't. Simple and complex, wonderful and terrible, it's something on a much deeper level than he ever could have grasped. And all this time, he never thought to apply the word to his situation.

He never thought of it. It never occurred to him. Not once.

It just wasn't in his programming.

_Why?_

"Oh, don't look so serious," says Thomas, chuckling. "It was a joke. It is very normal, though. Happens to almost everyone. Nothing abnormal about it, so you can quit your worrying."

Wheatley doesn't reply. He is concentrating on keeping himself balanced, standing, calm. Staring at his hands, his mind flashes to this morning, to how she touched his face, his mouth, his fingers, how she smiled, and panic takes root underneath his ribcage and climbs up the space between his lungs.

"Oh, god," he murmurs, voice cracking.

He doesn't see Thomas, but he can sense his presence somewhere around the edges of his vision. "Are you all right?" he hears. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," he rasps. There's wetness forming in the corners of his eyes, and then the world turns into a bleary mess. "I don't _know_."

Everything that happened—everything he put her through, all that happened There, everything, _everything_—is worse.

It's so much worse.

"Wheatley?"

He doesn't know how the floor managed to fly up and meet him, but he's staring at it now, sleek and white, his temples throbbing. His knees have somehow begun to hurt and his stomach feels as though it's being wrenched about.

Wheatley should be relieved. He really should. He knows this isn't Her doing now. This is fine, this is _normal_; this isn't something She plagued him with. He should be rejoicing. He should be relieved. He _should_.

But he's not.

"Wheatley?" Thomas's voice is somewhere beside him, quick and urgent. He feels the pressure of a hand between his shoulder blades, but he doesn't move. "What's wrong? What happened?"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know why his head hurts. He doesn't know why some space in his mind opened up its maw and attached all of these meanings to everything. He doesn't know why he's reeling and he doesn't know why he's on the floor.

Wheatley knows only one thing:

He is head over heels for Chell.


End file.
